


three, two, one: let’s run

by Livali



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gen, everyone just dips in and out, fic prompt collection, relationship tags are added accordingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 36,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28804026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livali/pseuds/Livali
Summary: They meet in spite of fate; fate likes proving it.(or; ideas given form and given life. collection of one-shots. please refer to chapter titles for specific relationships.)latest: it goes like this; celestia ludenberg, and a spiral in three parts.
Relationships: Asahina Aoi/Celestia Ludenberg, Asahina Aoi/Kirigiri Kyoko, Asahina Aoi/Kirigiri Kyoko/Celestia Ludenberg, Asahina Aoi/Ogami Sakura, Fukawa Touko/Naegi Komaru, Genocider Syo | Genocide Jack/Naegi Komaru, Kirigiri Kyoko & Naegi Makoto, Kirigiri Kyoko/Celestia Ludenberg
Comments: 113
Kudos: 89





	1. celesgiri - but i know you were right (and we’re too late)

**Author's Note:**

> uploading old wlw thh prompts that i like from my discord server. they're mostly thh pairings with some instances of other background pairings or relationships. you can request one, if you like, but i won’t guarantee it will be added into queue. 
> 
> prompt: celesgiri + canon compliant + “if any one of us deserves to live, it should be you.”

On the first day of the killing game, Kirigiri doesn’t expect to be approached by Celestia Ludenburg.

It’s never crossed her mind; she’s one among fifteen and that was all there was to it. She has no reason to expect anything when she’s made it clear she’s got more important things that demand her attention, when there are more people in her class with much more colorful and attractive characters than what she’s decided to display—she brushes the ringing in her mind away for days leading up, finding comfort in the one thing she knows how to do, in what’s left with her, memories of a person with no name that isn’t quite as fortunate.

Call it an urge, Celeste had said. Kirigiri will realize later it was more than that.

Okay then, she would respond, her mouth dry, and she doesn’t bother questioning why so.

“It’s following the system set up for us, or that.” Celeste says, but she’s still smiling, in spite of Enoshima’s body laying lifelessly on the cold gym floor. “Time ticks, investigate and make use of it wisely. Adapt or die.”

Kirigiri will hear this speech, or variations from it, from her more often than she's heard anything else, but she hasn’t shared her own thoughts on the matter and so she doesn’t interrupt. “But what do you want to do, then?” She asks one night after Oowada’s execution, leaning against the dorm hallway walls. “This game preys on our inherent instinct to survive—to protect ourselves, first and foremost. What will you do?”

She doesn’t miss the brief, frightened look in Celeste’s eyes or the tensing of her jaw before she masks it with fire. See, the worst part of the killing game, Kirigiri’s known for a while now, is not the game itself. That’s going to awaken their basic survival instincts, their desperation for life—primal, unhindered urges exacerbated by the presence of strangers. No, no, the worst part of the killing games, is now, in these few hours before, when everyone is cooperating and caring for each other in their own ways so exquisitely, when the prize is dangled right before their eyes and cruelly taken away.

“You’re right,” Celeste says, though her tone’s taken on an odd, darkly thoughtful quality. “This game is inhumane and barbaric in nature, however,” she trails off, flicking a few cards in her hand, strip by strip. “If I were given a choice, it’s all about adapting. Perhaps, I might be able to do something.”

_Do what_ , Kirigiri almost asks, but the miserable gleam in her eye stops her voice from its course, cages it like promises in spite of fate; fate makes her regret it. It tells her she doesn’t want to know.

And maybe she should’ve. Because they were standing for her trial days later.

“The culprit is you, Celestia Ludenburg!”

She rewatches the scene from third-person, as if it’s a dream she’s having, only it’s happening a split second after inside of her own skull. The perfectly manicured hand of Celeste is ashen in her grip over the trial stands, knuckles turning stark. All their lives flutter slightly in the breeze, caught between only miniscule verbal blunders and held aloft. Kirigiri’s hazy, disoriented. She’s not there. She’s somewhere else, watching someone she should call a stranger at best called to the death and starting, already, to murmur about her odds.

But oh, she does. She sees Celeste perfectly.

Sees her step forward to with a smile on the edge of breaking. Sees everyone sans a few shifting uncomfortably, uncertain what to make of the motion. Sees some of them clutching their hearts, some of them shaking their heads. And she sees Celeste, unable to hide the shaky smile in the corner of her mouth when she hands her the key.

She’s allowed no time for her goodbyes. Monokuma looks at her as if measuring her body for a coffin, if there’ll be anything left of her to bury after. It’s atrocious. Maybe Celeste would rather take the realism at this moment; at least she’ll get an honest farewell.

(“If any one of us deserve to live,” Celeste says quietly, the night before. “It should be you.” She doesn’t say _everyone else_ , because she’s selfish, and short a few memories to care for them so.

“Everyone does,” Kirigiri only says, a strange stinging in her eyes. But there’s nothing else to add beyond that, because ultimately, they don’t know each other as much as she would have liked.

You’re ridiculous, she thinks numbly. If all of us deserve to live, how did we end up with it?)

But on the hours after Enoshima Junko’s trial and execution, standing outside of the gambler’s room, she finds memories that have no place, and her eyes meet the nameplate over the door as if by gravitational pull. As if the tide itself is sending her a reminder of what she’s lost.

She’s heard Monokuma’s gripes with them more than she was pleasured with. She’s seen the effect of it first-hand, their rebellion and all its casualties. How the killing game was born from the ashes of those it cremated to serve as a statement and as a reminder. She wonders how many more would’ve had to die for a different world to rise instead.

_Oh_ , she thinks of saying, and steps out into the light.


	2. celesgiri - (can we) fast forward to the good part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celesgiri + childhood/high school au + “oh, in that case, i can’t go out with you. i have a girlfriend now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will be uploading another one in the next few hours.

So, Celeste’s like, fourteen or something when she realizes she’s in love with one of her friends. She says _or something_ because it sounds so _young_ , but it’s essentially the truth of what she feels and she won’t challenge it, won’t even question the matter. Kirigiri Kyoko’s been her closest friend for years, and now her heart is beating in places it shouldn’t be—her wrist, her stomach, her mouth.

She doesn’t tell anyone, obviously—she knows what they’ll say, can picture Maizono’s voice inside her head saying, _love’s a strong word for fourteen, you know,_ or Asahina’s _are you for real_ , and she decides she’ll just live quietly with the knowledge and prove them wrong in advance.

And Kirigiri herself, well— _Kyoko_ —it’s always been hard to tell if she thinks about it at all, if she notices how close they are or if it’s something she takes entirely for granted, too natural to dissect, too perfect to correct, too right to push away. She seems absorbed by Celeste, her life a landscape with her hand over the smooth material of Kyoko’s gloves and Kyoko’s laugh lost against the crook of Celeste’s shoulder. She only moves closer, and closer, and closer.

Eventually, Celeste just defaults to the assumption that Kyoko’s probably in love with her, too, though she never speaks of it aloud—it’s in everything else, everywhere else. Rumors swirl by the time they’re sixteen. Are they, aren’t they, will they, won’t they, when will they; teenagers can never get enough of gossip, apparently. Kyoko hides in her dark, enigmatic and mysterious way, leading nobody to answers in the ways she does best; Celeste only floats in the sea of hearsays, wraps the truth under the fall and presses a kiss to her cheek.

They’re eighteen. A boy asks Kyoko on a date and she raises an eyebrow, perplexed and somewhat amused; she’s always made her disinterest clear. Men, Celeste’s always said; _hm,_ Kyoko would respond in the same, disinterested way she always does, but the smile hidden in her eyes give her away.

Think of the devil, and speak of the devil. Celeste steps up beside her in a particularly arrogant flair and says, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but Kirigiri-san, I realized there’s something I should probably tell you.”

The boy stares at her, stares between them both, shifts uncomfortably. Kyoko ignores him—he’s taking up her time, after all, and she’ll use it however she likes. So of course, she uses it on someone more important instead—and asks, “What?”

“I’m in love with you,” Celeste says promptly, smile dry and humorous. “I’ve been in love with you since we were like, fourteen, or something.”

“Ah,” Kyoko says, turns back to the boy, now looking pale and utterly confused, if his particularly shell-shocked expression was any indication. “In that case, I can’t go out with you. I have a girlfriend now.”

Celeste threads their fingers together, pulls her around the back of the school building, away from the scene they’ve undoubtedly caused. “I love you too,” Kyoko murmurs, and Celeste presses a palm to her cheek and giggles against her lips.


	3. celesgiri, naegami - An Incomplete Guide to the Association Between Deceit and (what some might call) Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: platonic celesgami, implied celesgiri and naegami + hope’s peak academy au + ‘a and b thinks it’s funny people assume they’re dating. obviously, they drive everyone up the wall over it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one of the longer chapters. the longest one in the queue i have is at 3k approximately.
> 
> anyways, this is actually one of my favorite prompts. they're funny. canon-wise, i don't think celeste and byakuya would ever view each other on equal footing (byakuya more so), but this dynamic is pretty nice to explore, so here it is. there is also a sequel to this, but it's rather far in the queue.

“Ludenberg,” Togami says to her at one lunch afternoon, mindlessly spinning the teaspoon of his drink with a thoughtful look on his face. “Everyone thinks we’re in a relationships of sorts. Dating, as they say.”

“That’s disgusting.” Celeste says instantly, pauses after a moment, and then smirks. “Do you want to play a game then?”

“Do you mean… _prank_ them?” Togami practically spits out, _unsophisticated_ sits on his tongue somehow, but he still considers her for a moment. “As long as we don’t have to do anything untoward.”

“Aw,” she coos in a droll sort of voice, “but you’re so attractive, dear.”

Togami only flicks a breadstick at her.

She catches it with a simple flourish, sets the pastry down on a small plate in front of her. She hums considerately. “So, you’re alright with this?”

“Perhaps,” he grins at her, a scheming, arrogant, slanted thing. “I must hear how you plan to do this first.”

Celeste feels her smile widen at that.

* * *

“This is… surprisingly rather easy,” she admits to him later, as he sets one of his suit jackets onto her shoulders. It looks ridiculous on her, as it should anyways, but not that she minded much. She adjusts herself over her seat, ignoring the discomfort of the cafeteria chairs as she skims through a biology textbook she’s borrowed from the library. “It’s getting somewhat boring now.”

“Are you daft? I’ve said it once, haven’t I?” Togami points out, setting down his newspaper at her side. “People here like assuming things. The lot of idiots.”

Celeste giggles, pursing her lips. “I know, but still.”

“Ah, _dear_ ,” he drawls. “What? Am I not good enough for you?”

“Someone like you is far below my standards.” She rolls her eyes. It appears they were allowed to call each other names of some sort; she hums to herself and takes a note of it. “If we’re going there, what should I call you? I believe it’s only fair if I have to hear you call me _that_. It makes me shiver.”

Byakuya scoffs, then considers her for a moment, placing a hand on his chin. “Darling.”

“I call _Kirigiri-san_ that.” Celeste points out, narrowing her eyes. “It’s _our_ thing.”

“Your _thing?_ ” Togami says simply, a certain look on his face. The one that means trouble, verbal assault, and maybe consequent libel. “…I see.”

“We don’t need to concern ourselves with two schemes at once.” She says harshly, before pausing. The image he’s forming in his head most likely had to do with Kirigiri, and unfortunately, Celeste was very, _very_ fond of her. “Perhaps after this one."

“And if I still want to call you that otherwise?” Togami hums, snidely crossing his arms over the cafeteria table. He sends her a smirk, as though it may convince her in some way.

It doesn’t.

(But she allows it, because it _is_ rather funny.)

“Alright, but you cannot hold me accountable for any damages caused against you if you do call me that.” She goes back to flipping her biology textbook; god _,_ for someone who doesn’t seem to budge over any of her taunting, Kirigiri’s surprisingly receptive to any advances towards Celeste herself. _Talk about territorial._

“Will she really?” Togami asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I hope she will.” Celeste replies shamelessly. “But I doubt she would do so with me around.”

She notices a flash of red hair at the corner of her eye and subtly shifts her head to the side. Togami understands almost immediately.

“You _hope_ she’ll hurt me over something so trivial? That’s rather obnoxious of you.” He smirks, shooting her a somewhat dramatic, teasing look. It looks so out of place that Celeste internally winces. It’s not impressive at all. “ _Darling._ ”

Celeste cringes, flicking the edge of the page between her fingertips. “Well, _dear_ , excuse me for wanting her to show some semblance of initiative.”

Kuwata casually walks past their table, eyes shifting between them back and forth, looking positively mischievous.

“…this is unbelievably simple.” Togami mumbles under his breath, leaning slightly away from her and watching Kuwata leave the canteen. “How long do you think until this entire damned school will know of us?”

“Oh please,” she scoffs. “Give it a day.”

* * *

Certainly enough, a lot of the school and the student population thrive on the gossip, and the both of them are on the receiving end of many, many looks the next day.

“Ah, dear, good afternoon.” She greets him at the lunch table, ignoring the way more than half of their class freeze at the nickname. She uses that particular term of endearment frequently, but hearing it directed towards _Togami_ of all people probably disturbs them.

See, they haven’t really stepped up the act or anything, they were the way they usually were. But now, Celeste notices, every little ‘nice’ thing she does or says to Togami is followed by someone almost fainting, or, well, actually passing out.

It’s _comical_.

“Darling.” He only says with a similar, scheming smile, and she can see how he thinks that the way their classmates were reacting is hilarious, and she doesn’t quite have the motivation to take her ill will out on him for the moment.

“Can I have my coat back now?” She gestures to the waist-length black trench coat he’s worn over his school uniform. “I need it for a game later tonight.” This isn’t exactly true, but it’s not a lie either. The only ‘game’ she truly has planned for the night is trying to give her cat his much required bath. The odds are against her in that one.

“Well, only if I have mine back as well.” Togami schools his expression into something chastising. There’s not much effort—as being ‘annoyed’ is his expression by default anyway. It’s his version of being happy. “You’ve been using it for a while.”

She had been, she’d worn it every _damn_ time she could get away with it, and silently took pleasure in the looks on everyone's faces as she did so.

Celeste wondered if she and Togami were being—well _,_ _assholes_ , but quickly gets over it. She cites to herself that she is technically already a bitch, and ‘asshole’ is always attributed to Togami by subtext. Seriously, what’s a little more added to that?

“That’s—that’s _his_ coat?!” Naegi chokes out, coughing on some tangerines.

“Obviously, Naegi-kun.” Celeste says blankly, expression completely serious as she gestures to the gaudy, sophisticated gold patterns of Togami’s jacket. “I’d rather be caught dead than have something this tasteless in my closet.”

Naegi chokes again, this time so badly and to the point that Asahina has to lean over to slap at his back. Togami looks on worriedly, but snaps the expression away when they’re done.

“Et tu, darling?” Togami finally drawls out, “Am I getting it back?”

She hums a little. “It’s rather comfortable though. I almost fell asleep in it earlier.” She didn’t even have to lie for this one, despite its frankly horrific outward design, the material for this clothing in particular was very soft and warm, almost to the point where she nearly dozed off in the lobby and missed one class.

“Straight people.” She hears Oowada mutter to himself.

“That’s rather… endearing.” Byakuya rolls his eyes with a smile, ignoring their classmates. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were giving me a heart attack.”

Celeste sneers. “I sincerely wish you die.”

“Now that’s more like it.” Togami smirks, crossing his arms. When she rolls her eyes, he smiles, leaning forward and staring at her dead in the eye. He hums, thinking for a moment. “You can have yours back, but only if you give me something else in return if you truly don’t want to give that back—it’s only fair, after all.”

She pauses, considering, before moving to check her pockets.

Naegi and Asahina openly gape. Hagakure drops his spoonful of rice.

“Celes-chi?” Hagakure asks her. “You’re… complying?”

Celeste glowers weakly at him, and doesn’t have to fake the way her cheeks turn a slight pink. “And what of it, Hagakure-kun? I don’t always cause a fuss.”

“Yes, you do!” Asahina groans into the palms of her hands, looking like someone had eaten her favorite brand of donuts before she’s even gotten one bite in. “What, _the_ Celestia Ludenberg? _Listening_ to someone? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head or something?” Her head snaps upward, pressing her palms flat against the table and leaning towards her. She does a very good job of pretending to be worried. “Celes-san? Are you sick? Are you dying? Do you need help?”

She watches Kirigiri hum from Naegi’s other side. “Well, are you?” She says somewhat seriously, turning to look at Asahina. “Sick, I mean. Is she?”

“Of course not.” Celeste scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

“Doubtful,” Kirigiri says immediately, but lets out a breath, relenting. “But if you say so.”

Celeste turns back to Togami, sighing. “I don’t have anything else on me at the moment, dear.”

“I see.” He says, thinking for a moment, then smirks. “Simply call me ‘hot’ and we’ll call it even.”

“What?” Celeste frowns. “Why on Earth would I do that?”

“Darling—” (Kirigiri, now that Celeste has a clearer view, predictably looks irritated at that.) “—it’s just one word.”

“Full offense,” Celeste furrows her brow. “But I would literally rather die.”

Togami raises an eyebrow at her.

“Fine,” she scoffs. “You’re hot.”

Everyone in their class goes deathly still.

“Ah, I knew you would come around.” He says with a smirk, ignoring the people around them and pushing his glasses up in a dramatic, theatrical flair. “But that’s not enough.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she mumbles under her breath. “Alright then. I will preach to all those that surround us—”

“Oh _god_.” Oowada grumbles. “Make them stop.”

“—that you are, indeed, the most attractive—”

“Ugh,” Asahina looks up at the ceiling as though hoping a deity might take pity on her and put her out of her misery. Oogami gently rubs her shoulder.

“—and most smoking piece of male specimen I have ever had the pleasure of seeing in my entire life." Celeste ends, nodding solemnly.

Hagakure groans into the cafeteria table.

Togami rolls his eyes and leans forward, taking his hands in hers with all the gravitas of a servant leaning before the countenance of their queen. “You, on the other hand—”

“I think we’ve heard enough.” Celeste interrupts.

“It’s already more than enough.” She hears Naegi mutter to himself bitterly.

“—trust in my judgement, _darling._ ” Togami looks up at her, smoldering solemnly, and it’s so hard not to _laugh_ at the expression on his face. “You’re also quite a catch.” He punctuates it with a kiss to the back of her hand, and Celeste can’t help herself.

Her giggling rings out throughout the silent cafeteria. She removes one of her hands from his, pressing the back of it to her mouth as she tries to muffle her laughter. “You are _horrible_.”

“Are you…” Kirigiri blinks rapidly, looking somewhat disgruntled. “Are you laughing?”

“It’s rather _cute_.” Togami says nonchalantly.

“It’s not.” Asahina, Oowada and Hagakure all say at the same time.

Celeste rolls her eyes. “Whatever, you’re pretty hot, Togami-kun. Now can I have my coat back?”

Togami sneers at her, but obeys.

“Oh god, oh my god—!” Kuwata yells out from the side, voice cut off by Naegi slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Okay, we get it. I’m aware you guys are dating.” Naegi says slowly, eyeing Celeste rather harshly. “But would it kill you two get a room?”

Celeste and Togami blink at each other. “We are not dating.”

“Does it appear that we are dating?” She asks Togami.

“I don’t believe so,” he replies boredly, checking his watch. “Do you think it’s because we have tea times at four every weekday?”

“Or you insist on becoming my partner for projects multiple times. It’s rather annoying.”

“You have tea with each other every weekday?” Kirigiri asks, turning towards Celeste and raising an eyebrow. “We only do that three times a week.”

“And you used to be _my_ partner for a lot of duo projects.” Naegi complains.

“We’re just friends.” They say at the same time.

Everyone seems to die a little inside at that. Naegi starts sulking, and Kirigiri frowns, seemingly thoughtful.

Celeste and Togami exchange awkward looks. They hadn’t expected… whatever this is.

_Jealousy?_ He asks her with a look.

_No, that can’t be. That’s impossible._ She responds.

_This is strange._ His face says.

_Very strange._ Her face contorts in a grimace.

They look and nod at each other, then decide to make their exit. He coughs, beginning to walk away, ignoring the noises of protest everyone else makes, and Celeste follows. She goes after him without hesitating, smiling, and together they scurry quickly out of the mess hall.

So much for scheming, really.


	4. celesgiri - check you out like next month’s metropolitan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celesgiri + detective/thief au + ‘your lips, my lips; yours’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!! this au!! woooo yeah

There’s not a lot of instances that could ever shake the foundations of her career, with the exception of one.

It’s strangely simple to move beyond what they were; dark corners just aren’t as appealing as they used to be. Celestia Ludenburg doesn’t steal away at parties or galleries or exhibits and such; Kirigiri Kyoko doesn’t lock the two of them in interrogation rooms—there’s no cat and mouse. Now they share a bed and Celeste leaves her skin on display, her scars are what she used to steal from; they’re a museum. Oh, they’re there, she says, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. Not when you touch them.

Her possessiveness, however, doesn’t seem to just have been a product of circumstance; it’s much more than a hand to the hip, lips close to her ear. Regardless of how Celeste reigns herself in, Kyoko is left consumed by her entirely.

Kyoko finally points it out over the sound of gunfire and a third level alarm on a Tuesday night downtown, staring at her reflection on the spotless museum floors; Celeste pokes her head around an Impressionist painting of Izanagi and shrugs. “I like it,” she says, entirely unapologetic. Kyoko catches a glimpse of jewelry and antiques being shoved in a bag, playful argument receding back into her mouth. “I like looking at you. I like remembering things.”

“You mean you like knowing that I belong to you,” Kyoko counters dryly, crossing her arms.

Celeste’s purposefully evasive tone answers more questions than if she’d avoided them completely. “Your words, not mine.”

Kyoko shifts on her spot, steps closer; Celeste’s twirling a nice piece of necklaces Kyoko knows weren’t stolen from this particular establishment, but from the atheneum blocks and blocks behind. She puts a hand to her cheek, and Celeste’s eyes drift shut. She doesn’t flinch against her touch, as if something she can recognize instantly, even when it’s unexpected. Her lips tilt up at a corner.

She curls her fingers against Celeste’s jaw, gently guides her forward for a kiss, presses their bodies together. Celeste only hums quietly against her mouth, hands dropping to her chest. It’s one of those opportunities she’ll never pass up, take for granted; Celeste used to run, and now she does otherwise.

“Look,” Kyoko murmurs, and Celeste’s eyes dart open, the red of them momentarily so vivid it’s nearly disarming. Her stare follows the patterns of the barrel of Kyoko’s gun, snug on her waist.

Celeste sighs against her lip before moving away, lingering. “You know,” she begins, presses a thumb down against the cold, unforgiving metal; Kyoko hums in her throat, an automatic response to her voice. “This sort of secrecy doesn’t look good on you, detective.”

“It’s okay,” Kyoko says, her smile crooked; it’s a look she won’t rid herself of until Celeste makes her. Maybe that’s a ploy in of itself. “I’m aware.”

She is, and if she isn’t, it’s made explicitly clear. The authorities arrive in about a few minutes, and Celeste’s still curled against her side, poking fun at a few paintings and kissing the side of Kyoko’s mouth like the chorus of a song she can’t stop repeating. Somehow, there’s a guard who spots her as Kyoko slinks back into the shadows. Isn’t there always. Such a drama queen.

“It’s—it’s _you!_ ” He tells Celeste as he pulls out a glock, and she only blinks at him, lips twisting bemusedly. “Put those down!”

“No,” she says, too bored for subtlety and laced in humor. Kyoko only rolls her eyes, leaning against a wall and staring at a broken security camera, overhearing but not bothering to look. Celeste continues, “For a place that claims to hold high profile and precious items, the security here is rather lax,” she adds seriously. Kyoko keeps her mirth contained, comfortable in the dark, even though it’s true.

“I—uh.” The guy’s voice turns in on itself. “You—you’re surrounded anyway, there’s no use trying to run. All exits are blocked; surrender now or else we’ll resort to force!”

“I see,” She hears Celeste say, note of ego apparent; it took her too many nights and graveyards to get to casual indifference, too many close calls and injuries for dismissal. They’re something she’s proud of. “That’s a shame.”

The entire room is submerged into total darkness and panicked shouts the second she walks away, and Kyoko walks ahead, opening a certain room and taking her in. She lets out a fond sigh as they walk up a flight of stairs. “Maybe I should stop helping you on your escapes,” she remarks, gazing at a few passed out cops on the steps. “These are getting way too easy for you.”

“Maybe you should,” Celeste says, tilts her head and drops a kiss against her mouth, “I should lead you on another chase. Seems to work for you.”

Kyoko chuckles, carefully unscrewing a vent leading to a quiet opening outside. “Celes-san,” she says serenely, crouching and setting down the now, open vent, “anything will work for me even if you increase the difficulty.”

“For someone supposedly against me,” Celeste starts with a laugh. “You’re very forgiving.”

“Unless I turn you in.”

Celeste snorts, then pauses, considering her. “Will you then?” She asks with humor. “Will you really turn me in?”

“Oh no, I won’t. As far as we know, I never caught you, and you never even saw me here,” Kyoko challenges playfully, lips kinking slightly upward. “Where else will I be able to find another girlfriend then?”

Celeste’s arms wind around her neck, their foreheads brushing together. Her smile speaks to a treasure she’d never seen until Kyoko, and that’s not something she’s letting go of, ever. “No,” she admits, jokingly cross, and lets her go, ducking into the vent. “You’re stuck with me, detective. Forever, at this point.”

“Well,” Kyoko calls after her. “That’s not much of an inconvenience at all.”


	5. celeskirihina - too heavy is the head that protects the crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celeskirihina + knight/princess (or queen) au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two prompts today! one kirihina and one for these three. if i have to carry this ship on my own then so be it

She doesn't understand, and maybe she never truly will. At first, the way that the queen insists on calling her by her name. It's wrong, she thinks, it's wrong and informal and is so different than what she's come to expect. Kirigiri disobeys the order, remains quietly insistent of the use of titles between them. _Your highness_ and _your majesty_ escapes her lips, or maybe if she’s being less uptight: a simple, short _my lady_. But she never ever finds herself daring to cross the line that she herself had drawn.

To cross it meant disaster, perhaps not at first, but it would only be a matter of time before things would spiral out of control. Kirigiri wishes sometimes that she could force a way out of the chains of protocol, wishes that she can find the courage to just say her name—but she never can. The fear that plagues her is stronger than she had ever anticipated it to be, the horror that came with what would happen if it did.

And through it all, the way the queen looks at her does not escape her notice.

I am not your friend. She wants to tell her, wants to ask and plead and beg—hold the queen’s hands in hers and kneel down, to implore her to leave her be, to not give her false hope. Please do not ask it of me.

She never can, not only because it would be wrong to speak with such informality, but because she was afraid that if she uttered the words the queen might heed them. As a joke or seriously, she can never tell. The queen enjoyed being unreadable, playing around as she did.

Sometimes, when she is lonely (and she is most of the time, lonely), the idea haunts her. It lodges itself in her throat, suffocating her and smothering the breath from her lungs—it keeps her gasping and aching, as though the weight of her emotion was far too much and far too little at the same time.

Kyoko Kirigiri is a knight, her duty and her life are bound to the crown; she was to protect it and serve it as best as she could—but the call, the sweet and warm melody of friendship sang to her.

(And more often than naught, it was in the form of not just the queen, but someone else, too.)

* * *

Aoi Asahina, captain of the royal guard, is strange. This is Kirigiri’ first impression of her.

She’s shorter than the queen is, that is her next impression—and it made Kirigiri feel a bit odd, the fact that a retainer to the highest ranking family of the kingdom (someone who could influence the order of an execution with a few magic words and a lethargic jerk of her chin) could be so small. It’s not a nice notion to have for someone she just met, but she wasn’t one to mince her words, even in the abode of her own thoughts.

Kirigiri remembers bowing to her formally, greeting superiors as she should—and because her head is dipped down, she doesn’t see Asahina give her a peculiar look. She lifts her chin when bid, keeps her eyes on the floor, careful not to endanger her place. Her father had sent her here, but being more comfortable with the politics of her own kingdom and not this one, her actions reflect that. She hopes that here it is different, but dares not taking one step out of practice, just in case.

Asahina bounds forward, metal boots clacking loudly on the tiles of the garden and derailing her thoughts, and she tilts her head downward to where Kirigiri’s eyes had been—forcing her to make direct contact.

Kirigiri feels something in her chest constrict, and her shoulders go more rigid than they already were.

The knight captain (whose name Kirigiri is well aware of but dares not to think of another time lest it become a distraction) grins at her, placing a hand on her chin and nodding thoughtfully. _You_ , the knight seems to say in time with her shrug, _I like you_.

She’s inducted vice-captain of the royal guard the next morning, a promotion that gets her many side eyes and outright glares from many of the older knights who already despised her for being the queen’s personal retainer, and told she is to take orders from Asahina.

Kirigiri, confused and disoriented, obeys with little more than a word.

The captain of the royal guard eyes her, blue eyes brightening when she takes in her hair and her eyes, something she’s been acquainted with a day before. She tells her to take it easy with a laugh and a warm, inviting hand on her shoulder—warm enough that she can feel it even through chainmail and armor. Something in Kirigiri’s stomach drops.

She's careful not to be alone with her much after that. (She fails to do so.)

* * *

(The queen eyes them for a moment in her chambers, before nodding, as though to say, _You_ , _I like you_ , and it’s so reminiscent of her first meeting with Asahina that Kirigiri fails to stop the aforementioned woman from throwing her into a side-hug.

This calls for a celebration, right? She cheers, reaching up and using a handkerchief hanging on her belt to wipe the blood from Kirigiri's cheek. A mess she had acquired from more excessive bouts of training with the royal guard.

Kirigiri—shocked and still and far too warm—forgets to push her away.

And if she were to fish the queen for an honest answer to her promotion and earlier look, she’d waste no time in proclaiming that they were her best servants, if only because they were the only one who can apparently keep up with her.)

* * *

It comes to her quietly, the realization that she wants more than she had previously let herself. It’s when she looks at the queen and her fellow retainer and thinks of their names—when she stills, stopping in her tracks at the names echoing in her head. She’d never allowed herself to say it, even in the safety of her own mind, never allowed herself to think it, but somehow it had snuck up on her—a runaway thought given too much power to pollute.

Asahina and Ludenberg—her colleague and their crown, she _has_ to think of them that way—stops and turns to look at her, one with a delicately raised eyebrow, and one frowning worriedly. Asahina walks towards her, head tilted, and it takes every ounce of strength that Kirigiri has not to take a step back.

The queen says her name, quiet and soft and something else that sends a shiver down Kirigiri’s spine, and asks if she’s alright.

(And Kirigiri barely manages to say that she is.)

She nods, averting her gaze and moving forward, matching their pace. A tight smile on her face as she tries to put her sudden pause behind her—but they ( _her colleague and their crown_ , she has to call them that way or else she’ll think—Hina, Celeste, Hina, Celeste—) don’t seem as keen to drop the matter.

Ludenberg hums, resting a well-manicured hand on her arm. “Are you truly fine as you claim to be?”

For a moment, Kirigiri feels as though she is being suffocated. Something must be clamped around her throat, someone's hands or a weapon or something that is making it so she cannot breathe—but it hits her as Asahina and Ludenberg stare at her, red eyes steady and blue eyes strong, that _this_ , this is all her own doing. She chokes on that realization, that this was her own fault, that she had told herself to be careful and she simply didn’t listen.

She manages to say that she is fine, manages to spin a tale of being lost in thought, and even though they don’t clearly believe her, they allow Kirigiri her reprieve.

(But not without the queen reaching out to hold her hand, not without the captain resting her hand on the small of her back, and not without making sure that Kirigiri was close enough to feel the warmth radiating through their clothes—because her majesty had insisted that like her colleague she leave her armor and though it was entirely unprofessional of her she’d obeyed and oh _god_ this was a long time coming wasn’t it oh no—)

Asahina giggles; a sweet, sunny sound. And Ludenberg playfully bats her eyelashes a bit, leading them deeper into the garden.

Being that close to them had been a test of strength.

They’d known each other for years, surely things wouldn’t change so much with the simple realization that she was in—

The simple realization that she was in—

She was—

She was in—

She felt… something for them.

(She couldn’t even think of it, the word ‘love’. Not in the context of them both, and certainly not if it was used to express how she felt. It was so lacking to encompass this feeling in its entirety.)

But of course, like most things nowadays, Kirigiri is wrong.

It is Asahina who calls her name this time, and Kirigiri has to force down a smile. The knight grips her arm and she has to avert her gaze to hide a blush, and Ludenberg does something and Kirigiri has to force herself not to look in fear of giving herself away. It felt like there was no rest to the endless mask she had to use to shroud her true feelings, and with every time she dawned on it, her emotions only swelled and became harder to contain.

There was no such thing as reprieve—not for her, not if it was this.


	6. kirihina - homesick and homebound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: gen, implied past relationships, implied kirihina + post-killing game, pre-future foundation + ‘lose everything but one.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this particular prompt actually has a fic in progress because i couldn't help myself from making it about thh survivors + found family, but for now you get the 600ish words that started that idea. celesgiri + sakuraoi is the next prompt in queue.

It’s not a surprise when the bed dips, given the loud creak of the door and muted sound of footsteps that had preceded the motion, but when she looks up and identifies the woman sitting next to her, her eyes widen nevertheless.

“Hey,” Kyoko starts, “and I know.” She offers the smallest of smiles, something she tries to do so more often nowadays, then leans back, hands bracing on the mattress to catch her own weight. “I’m hardly the first choice for this sort of talk.”

Hina blinks, opening her mouth and ready to protest, but Kyoko silences her with a noise from the back of her throat—a soft noise, one entirely like the hushes she remembers from the killing game (more often than not directed at a lot of the loud ones like Mondo or in some instances, Hiro, and maybe a little at Hina herself).

“Oh, don’t bother. We both know I’m right. Naegi-kun is the one with a penchant for speeches, and the rest who were, well…”

Her voice trails off and Hina’s eyes skirt away, finding safety in the dirty and stained white of the wall in front of her.

“Well,” Kyoko continues. “You know.”

It’s evident Kyoko isn’t really great at such things like small talk. But still, even if she’s not entirely sure how Kyoko had planned on finishing that sentence, Hina does know. And apparently Kyoko knows too. So that’s something.

Still, she remains silent, the only noise coming from the drag of her tennis shoes along the worn carpet beneath them as she tucks her legs in a bit closer to the rusting metal of the bed frame. There’s a clock on the far wall (time still accurate, despite the apparent clutter and disorder of their temporary shelter), and Hina almost wishes it would tick, just to fill the room with another sound, to give her something to focus on.

“For someone who claimed to enjoy conversation, you’re awfully very quiet right now.”

Her head jerks up, eyebrows lifting into her hairline, and finds Kyoko looking absolutely horrified, spine straight and hand over her mouth.

“Ah,” Kyoko coughs into her gloved hand. “I mean—”

Hina laughs. Loudly. Fully. She laughs hard enough that she finds herself rocking forward with her mirth, tension rushing out of her in shoulders as she hears Kyoko sigh, likely in embarrassment.

It’s a little hysterical maybe, and kind of stupid, but that’s alright. It’s okay. It’s fine. It’s a nice thing to have. That’s sort of just how things are right now.

“You’re okay,” she admits once her breath has returned, twisting slightly to see the laughter (and warmth) in Kyoko’s eyes.

“That’s good to hear, but, well—I’m sorry regardless,” she gestures towards herself, and the corners of her lips curl in a way that suddenly feels a little more pointed than before. “Look who you’re talking to.”

“You?”

“Mhm.”

“Huh?” Hina blinks, then snickers. “Oh yeah, I can totally see what the problem is here.”

She probably deserves the resulting shove, but it’s half-hearted at least, weak at best, and filled with little but enough affection that Aoi’s chest feels tight with something that feels beautifully familiar (if only recently and purposely forgotten, rediscovered and re-identified). It warps slightly, with Kyoko’s next words, but doesn’t vanish at all.

“You would think I would have a bit more control over our domain, seeing what I’ve done during the game.”

Hina lets a breath out through her nose. “Yeah.”

Outside, the sky is red, because it’s always red, and Hina, though she’s still holding onto Sakura’s message (too painful and almost too much in the abyss of her pockets, but a safe and homey reminder of what she’s got to live for), feels a shiver pass through her. Kyoko’s hand finds her back—blissfully warm and comfortable and familiar compared to the world outside.

“I hate this,” she says softly, Sakura's face flashing in her mind, and because she knows Kyoko will understand.

Kyoko sighs, crossing her legs. She seems to think of someone else, too. “I know.”


	7. sakuraoi - much more sweeter than it ought to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: sakuraoi, implied celesgiri + modern/college au + ‘listen, i think you need to know what counts as platonic and what counts as… well, gay.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is one of my favorites!! it's basically just kyoko and sayaka bullying hina bc she has a big fat crush on sakura and she hasn't realized it yet lmaoo
> 
> anyways, that aside, i think i've decided to post two prompts per day. granted, my backlog of finished prompts are gonna go emptier more quickly than i expected it to, but oh well. i don't mind. taking prompts from here too can be nice.

“I’m going to write her a letter.” Aoi declares with a fist pump, her determination bleeding into her tone. She looks at Kyoko and Sayaka, lazing about on the couch and typing away over the coffee table respectively while she stood in the doorway. At their blank looks, Aoi rolls her eyes. “Sakura-chan! I’m going to write Sakura-chan a letter!”

“’Sakura-chan’? The pretty one at the gym?” Sayaka asked her, tilting her head and putting a finger on her chin thoughtfully. “The one you keep gushing to us about? That Sakura-chan?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s only one ‘Sakura-chan’ we know that’s around the university.” Aoi says with a snort, bounding further inside the room, a spring in her step. “And stop calling her that.”

“Huh, you mean ‘the pretty one at the gym’? I thought that was our nickname for her, that’s what you keep calling her for almost two months straight when you first started getting along—”

“ _Stoooop,_ ” Aoi whines, her cheeks flushing. She wasn’t lying, Aoi had called Sakura that for a long time, but that didn’t mean she wanted any reminders. “I’m going to write her a letter, okay?”

“…a letter?” Kyoko asks slowly from where she sat, pausing from typing on her laptop and chewing on a spoonful of salad. She blinks, observing Aoi with an odd look on her face.

“Yeah!” She grins, crossing her arms smugly. “I just know it’s going to be perfect.”

“Are you sure though?” Sayaka asks, narrowing her eyes. She was leaning back and sinking into the sofa, a pencil balanced between her top lip and nose. It wiggles slightly as a skeptical look makes its way onto her face.

“Uh-huh.” Aoi insists, smiling and nodding at her. There was no way that Sayaka could change her mind, no matter what she was going to say. She’d been friends with Sakura Oogami for the latter and better part of a year, and the first time Aoi had worked up enough nerve to talk to her, they became friends faster than lightning had struck earth, a bond forming long before the thunder can roar. She can go as far as stating that they are best friends, while Sakura says they were ‘well-acquainted’ with one another. (Which in Sakura-speak totally and basically meant that they were like, soulmates or something.) “Letters are still pretty cool, right? I think she’d like a letter.”

“Just to be clear, what kind of letter are we talking about here?” Kyoko raises an eyebrow, watching her carefully.

“Duh, a nice one.” Aoi huffs and crosses her arms, as if it was obvious.

Sayaka sighs, her lips curling as a giggle flees from her mouth. “That’s not what she meant, you know.”

“Oh, okay then.” She says, turning back to Kyoko. “Well, what did you actually mean—”

“A love letter?” Kyoko asks with a tilt of her head, cutting her off. Her tone was serious in a way, brows furrowed as she watched Aoi. Despite the fact that Sayaka only knew who they were talking about in passing, Kyoko was actually on relatively good terms with Sakura. They had a somewhat similar schedule, and on the times Aoi skipped along to the university library, she often found them having fast-paced debates about their philosophy class.

“Love letter?” She repeats with a blink, baffled.

“Are you writing to Oogami-san because you have a crush on her?” Kyoko suggests with a hand to her chin, her eyes glittering. There was a knowing look on her face, and for a moment it felt like even though Kyoko was only looking into her eyes, she was seeing much more than Aoi was pretty comfortable with.

“Um, no…?” Aoi mumbles, not meaning for her voice to come out like a question. She frowns, raising a hand to scratch at the back of her head in thought. A crush on Sakura? That’s ridiculous! She can barely imagine it—well, _wait,_ that actually isn’t true, she can imagine it just fine. Her best friend was super cool and super awesome, so of course she thought that people could very easily develop feelings for her. But Aoi wasn’t like that, she thought that Sakura was just fine as her friend. “I just thought it was a nice thing to do, I guess?”

“Okay, it _is_ the thought that counts,” Sayaka hums, flicking the pencil around on her fingers, “but what you want to do sounds kind of…” She trails off, looking to Kyoko for help.

“Not platonic.” Kyoko clarifies for her.

“Yeah, like, compared to how communication today works, letters kind of seem too special to be sent as a casual thing.” Sayaka adds, placing her arms under her chin and leaning forward like some love struck protagonist of a historical romance drama. “Oh, Sakura-chan, how I long for your amazing company, your biceps and beautiful smile are in my mind constantly—”

“I—hey! Shut up!” Aoi yells, blood rising to her face and ears. “Friends can totally send other friends letters you know!”

“Right. Friends, sure. Okay. Very valid argument.” Sayaka easily shoots back with a snort.

“And a letter, while I’m sure is not intentional, can imply that the message is far more important than it should be.” Kyoko says, repeatedly clicking on her pen as her gaze returns back to her laptop. “It might not be taken the way it was originally intended to at first.”

“Ugh, I’m sure it’ll be fine you guys!” Aoi brushes them off with a wave of her hand, vibrating excitedly. “I’m going to write her a letter!”

Kyoko and Sayaka exchange glances. “Alright,” Kyoko relents, “but be careful.”

“Yeah.” Sayaka says, looking thoughtful and suddenly serious. It’s enough to make Aoi take a pause and listen closely. “Don’t want to play with her feelings too much by accident.”

“It’ll be fine.” Aoi huffs after a brief moment. “We’re best friends! I think best friends do stuff like this for each other all the time.”

Kyoko’s eyes flicker to the phone next to her laptop, a certain name sitting at the top of the contact list. “No, they really don’t.”

* * *

_Dear Sakura,_

_Hey! I noticed that you’ve been down a little bit lately, I think that’s got something to do with your dojo and stuff, right? So I came up with an idea to make you feel better! Friend bonding time! Isn’t it super cool?_

_I’m writing this letter to you on a lecture, and as I speak, you just chided me a bit about doing homework in a lecture—well, ha! I’ve tricked you, it isn’t homework, but a letter to you! Pretty sneaky, right?_

_Wait, don’t answer that part. I still haven’t done the homework._

_Aside from that, I just wanted to tell you to have a great day and that I care about you a lot! And that I really like it when you wear dresses on lectures, especially pastels! It really brings out how pretty you are and how soft and nice your hair is and stuff! I totally have a lot of other compliments but I think the professor is looking in my direction, so I’ll cut this short._

_Your best friend,_

_Asahina_

* * *

“Sooooo, so, so what do you guys think? It’s not so bad, huh?” Aoi shoves her phone into Sayaka’s face, watching excitedly as Kyoko leans over Sayaka’s shoulder to read it. She’d already delivered the letter because impulse control meant nothing to her, but she did make sure to take a picture of the letter in question to rush to Sayaka’s room to show her and Kyoko.

Once they finish skimming over it, Kyoko and Sayaka exchange matching unreadable looks. Aoi pouts, she didn’t usually mind when they did their silent communication thing, since she was also in that too. Kind of like an unspoken solidarity between them three, but at the moment it’s _awkward_ just standing and waiting in the middle until they stopped doing that.

“Sweetie, darling, sugar donut, your mother and I have been talking.” Sayaka begins after a moment, her voice playfully hoarse as she places a lock of her blue hair on her upper lip, pretending to twirl it like a mustache.

“We think you should consider other options, it doesn’t look like the varsity scholarship will work out.” Kyoko continues, her voice quiet as it always is, but with a gentle tone, easily playing along without much prompted.

“It’s always nice to have a plan B.” Sayaka says with a nod, before pausing and pretending to dramatically go into hysterics. “Oh god— _please_ tell us you have a backup plan—”

“Ha-ha, very funny guys. World-class comedy.” Aoi fumes, crossing her arms and puffing out her cheeks. She pauses for a moment, worry furrowing her brow. “It’s not that bad, right?”

“Asahina-san.” Kyoko says.

“Yes?” She asks hopefully.

“It is very friendly. It is very platonic.” Kyoko says flatly, reaching up and patting Aoi on the shoulder. “Except for the part about her dress, her hair, and how pretty she is, which is not.”

“That part was _loud_ ,” Sayaka nods eagerly, then shoots Kyoko a lazy wink. “Even louder than Celes-san flirting with Kirigiri-san here on the groceries last Friday.”

“That wasn’t flirting.” Kyoko says almost robotically.

“What? No!” Aoi protests, ignoring them both. “That dress and stuff was my favorite part, you know? It’s kind of like, one of the only compliments I could think of!”

“Isn’t she like, your best friend?” Sayaka blinks, frowning. “Shouldn’t you be able to come up with more than that?”

“Yeah, I know. But, well…” She sighs after a moment, thinking over her words. “I know that, but anything else I could’ve said might’ve made her feel awkward because it was all kind of...” She grimaces, squinting her eyes in thought and looking for the right word. “Flowery and fancy and stuff.”

Sayaka makes a noise of understanding (which comes out more than a snort rather than a hum) while Kyoko only looks on, confused.

“Flowery and… fancy?” She asks, blinking.

“I think she means gay, Kirigiri-san.” Sayaka elaborates for her. “Anything else she could come up with? Pretty sure they were totally gay.”

“That’s _not_ what I said and you know it.” Aoi says, a flush rising on her face. “I only mean that everything else I came up with was…”

“Flowery and fancy, we know.” Sayaka repeats with a roll of her eyes.

“Gay.” Kyoko says blankly.

“Yeah!” Aoi says, before panicking. “Wait, crap, I mean no—”

“Asahina-san, please hold on a second.” Kyoko raises a hand, furrowing her brows.

“Yeah? What’s up?” She asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She didn’t like the tone Kyoko was using; full of something she can’t place.

Kyoko looks at her for a moment, lilac eyes roaming her face. “Where is… the actual letter?”

Sayaka, catching on, also turns to her—catching a glimpse of her sheepish expression. “…oh my god, you _didn’t_.”

She laughs nervously, “I snuck it into her bag when she wasn’t looking?” Aoi says, rubbing at the back of her head. It was a little tough trying to sneak around Sakura since they were together a lot of the time, but she managed to make it work. The idea of the smile Sakura had on her face was enough determination to make it a reality, so she made it out somewhat unscathed. But with the way Kyoko and Sayaka were reacting so far made her feel as though things aren’t going to go as smooth sailing as she thought initially.

“Asahina-san.” They say in unison, Sayaka sounding aghast and Kyoko sounding amused, and maybe a little impressed.

“What? Huh?” Aoi asks, looking between them frantically. “What did I do? What’s up? What’s wrong?”

“Come on, we thought we told you to be more mindful about stuff like this—”

“There’s nothing we can do at this point.” Kyoko cuts her off, placing a hand on Sayaka’s shoulder. “Oogami-san’s probably seen it at this hour.”

“What’s the problem with the letter though?” Aoi asks, vibrating, the feeling of nervousness not fading one tiny bit.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. Personally, if I were to receive such a thing, it would be nice. It’s very thoughtful.” Kyoko reassures her, a small and hesitant smile on her face. “Though also kind of just a little bit…”

“Gay.” Sayaka finishes.

“Yes, er—well, um,” Kyoko blinks a bit, eyes hazing in thought before looking back up. “That, and the contents of the last bit has very… sapphic tendencies.”

“It’s gay, Kirigiri-san. You don’t usually mince your words, this time is no different.”

Aoi only groans, the sense of confusion never quite fading from her.

* * *

_Asahina,_

_It was a very nice surprise to receive your letter. Admittedly, I do wish that you would have used less exclamation marks, but I think it’s alright; if anything, your enthusiasm seems to bleed through even letters, and that’s a nice thing to see. I don’t mean to be sentimental, but it was a happy turn of events that did make my day better, so thank you. Usually, I think I would have told you all of this in person, but seeing as you took the time to write a letter to me, it’s only fair to return the favor._

_Yours truly,_

_Oogami_

_(an after note; your compliment and suggestion about my dress and hair was hard to follow at first, but I understood. It’s very kind of you to say that. I’ll keep them in mind.)_

* * *

“Ha, guys look!” Aoi bursts into Kyoko’s room, waving around the (pink) piece of paper in the air.

Kyoko (and Celes?) jumped, and though they were on opposite sides of the room they blushed as though they’d been caught doing something unsightly. Aoi decides to pretend she didn’t notice, her smile splitting her face and cheeks in half.

“You probably shouldn’t read it to us.” Kyoko coughs awkwardly, averting her gaze.

“She’s right. It might be a little bit of an— _you know_ , well _,_ _invasion of privacy_.” Sayaka agrees from behind her, laughter muffled by the hands over her mouth.

“I wasn’t going to! Just wanted to share that she’d written back, you know. I totally get what she’s saying.” Aoi pouts, placing her hands on her hips. “Give me a little credit.”

“Sorry.” Kyoko mumbles.

“Ah, Asahina-san, you seem to look very happy about that letter?” Celes asks, sitting up in the bed and watching her with a polite but tight smile on her face.

“She called my compliments hard to follow at first.” Aoi announces proudly, crossing her arms around her chest with a shit-eating grin.

“And that’s… a good thing? Yes?” Kyoko asks, a confused smile on her face.

“She also said that it was kind for me to say, and that she’ll keep them in mind.” Aoi answers, her hand going to the back of her neck as she blushes, shy and abashed.

“Asahina-san?” Kyoko asks.

“What’s up?”

“…actually, never mind. It’s nothing.”


	8. naegi & kirigiri - somebody's gonna come through for you (and it won’t be me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: gen, platonic naegiri, kirigiri-centric + canon compliant + in which kirigiri kyoko and naegi makoto swap places (in which the martyr is truly a martyr)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically: thh bad ending, but without the nightmare-inducing and vitriolic image of... that

Time has never been kind to you. Time has always been difficult for you. You lose yourself, to investigating and searching for the truth—it’s easy to lose yourself when you are already lost. It’s easy, slipping into the mold that has been created for you. Molded, not enough memories to truly call it a vessel, but enough to seem like a person still. Quiet, but careful not to seem too quiet, curious, but careful not to seem too curious. It’s easy, slipping into that mold—those preconceptions of people that you don’t even know—a chilling tight line on your mouth and long awkward silences, nothing that can be traced back to the cold, bitter rage that burns so badly inside of you. 

You deceive all these people, with the armor on your skin and the silver of your hair, you deceive them so easily—but you can never seem to bring yourself to consider that you might be a liar. You are probably one, but there are people far more worthy to be sincerely called a liar.

You remember—actually, you don’t. You don’t remember much. You know there’s a reason for that, far tied into this game. But somehow there are still a few spared for you, and you remember a few things, like sitting in front of a fire when you were young, watching the flames lick at the wood in rapid and smooth flickers of red and orange and yellow. You remember thinking of the hearth, the fire, and names in history who were kind in the face of a cruel and endless existence.

So time is difficult for you, because—though others claim you are, claim that you will be—eloquence and integrity is not something that will ever bestow itself upon you.

And that’s that.

Except, no—that isn’t that. Most things do not end that way for you. _That_ , you remember very well.

You’ve tried so, so hard to uncover the truth beyond yourself, or what’s left of you—really. What’s left from the memories taken away and consequently, the parts that have made _you_ , and to control the blistering anger inside of you because of it.

That’s why it’s so funny, you suppose, watching as the game sentences you to death and the boy (the boy who screams for you and begs for you and cares for you like a friend would) out of the trial, through the black, opposite sky. It’s funny that you lost track of the time when you realize you’ve lost, it’s funny—the idea that you have swapped spots with him.

(It’s funny because if things have went the way it did, he was to be the martyr—kind in the face of demise, and you were the fury—blistering cold and turning everything in your path inside out before being struck down.)

It’s funny, you think wistfully, so, so funny that you’ve traded places with him. It’s so funny that you will never uncover the truth.

(All is well. Except it is not, because you bound forward towards your execution and die, and you are all the better for it.)

* * *

His first approach to friendship, it is quiet and dark.

Beyond the endless chattering about death and murder and intrigue, there was a story he used to whisper to you, a story he painted about one who fought and spat in the face of the people who wronged them. He whispered, eyes green and bright, about how people would look upon them and know that they were better off throwing down their weapons than pursue them. He whispered to you there was only one who this certain person would die for, one worth saving—kind—one who was kind where they were not, one who would deceive the world if it meant that their bond would save the ones who would die unnecessarily. And he tells of another, not quite a hero, and not quite kind—one who'd dared to end the life they were never meant for.

(Except that wasn’t just a dare, because this wasn't just a story, this was a person who’d ended the world and put them in a game and a fight for their lives.)

You listen, interest piqued—watching as he tells you this story, watching as his words scream of wonder and fondness and a passion you knew lay dormant deep inside his chest. It’s different from you, different from your rage and burning curiosity and the whispers of a faceless man in your dreams that had always seemed to care for you even when you thought otherwise. You long for a simple kind of answer and a desperate kind of love, the type only found in the parts taken away from you, in tragedy and in death, and he longs for the opposite—a life of normalcy and fulfilment and breathless easy endearment.

You ask him, silently, if that is what he truly wants to be. (You don’t know what you would think if he said yes, what you would think if he revealed to you that he wanted to be the one with rage and fire and passion, but you do know that he is able to do so—given his predilection of forming bonds with everyone else.)

He looks at you for a moment, tilting his head so that the strands of brown fall into green. He gives a friendly smile, and tells you that the one he talked about—the one who was angry, the one who was fierce and blistering and strong—reminded him of you. 

(It shakes you to your core, the idea that he could see that in you, the idea that he could look past the wall you’ve created for yourself and see the fiery whirlwind of silver and blood and metal and bravery yearning passion _desperation_ that smiles when you bleed.)

You tell him that he’s silly. You don’t tell him that the other person—kind—reminded you of him. But you do look upon him, look upon his eyes and know that he is truly that kind person, to _see_ , but you don’t tell him so, you just leave with a wave of a hand and walk away.

(All is well. Except it is not, because you bound forward towards your execution and die, and you are all the better for it.)

* * *

His last approach to friendship, it is one that could mean your survival or your death, and he is looking at you with a careful stare.

It’s hard, seeing him look at you like that—like you were his friend, when it is so clear that he will be hurt still, that he wouldn’t dare to care when any of the previous trials have been any indication. The doors before the elevator have turned silent, the air making it harder and harder to look upon him. It lives in your chest, that raging inferno, that feeling and hate and longing that destroys you so often when you remember the cold metal harbouring the small of your pocket and pretend it isn’t there.

(It is fear and it’s shrouded by your resolve, but of course—you don’t want to know that.) 

You shake your head and walk ahead, brushing past him, but not without quiet encouragement. He blinks, looking still careful and affronted and you look away as the elevators ride down.

And they all say nothing.

You remember one last story; one who had stood unmoving in her beliefs, who had seen and known and understood that she was to die—and moved forward anyway. He whispers her name— _Kirigiri-san, listen to me_ —whispers how they were no martyrs, but victims, children, children with dreams and hopes and ambitions—he whispers to you these words, quiet and sad. He tells you that she belonged to a tragedy, that her death was entirely avoidable, that the game had seen the humanity inside of her and crushed it to dust. And he tells you that she didn’t mind, he tells you that she walked ahead anyway, and that the people around her had seen it too late.

(All is well. Except it’s not, because you walk towards your execution and die. Because the rage inside you is still there, cold and sweltering and burning and uncontrolled, and all of them know now. That was all there was, and you were not all the better for it.

You think of him, of everyone else, of their lack in destiny and their lack of despair and their lack of an always—and for a moment it is you who is not being martyrized. You ask yourself if that’s what he truly wants to be. He smiles, kind and understanding and almost sad, and says yes.)


	9. sakuraoi, kirihina - find each other in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: kirihina, past sakuraoi + vaguely canon compliant (thh up to the future foundation arc) + five plus one: the five times hina knew she was in love, and the one time she acts upon it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i said two prompts per day but i checked this one aaaaand, this is the 3k words one i mentioned in my backlog lol
> 
> i didn't think i'd written more 2nd person pov stuff, but this one is special to me (mostly because this was done in a caffeinated state at 1am on a monday morning and i remember feeling oddly proud of this after finishing, and i never questioned it soo); hopefully, this is enough before i update--and i swear--two (2) prompts next time.

The thing about getting into Hope’s Peak is that if you were to be born differently, it wouldn’t have happened. There was a point, a small ripple in your past where the opportunity to create something of the life you’d been given popped up. It was so easy, mindlessly paving your way forward, taking advantage of your natural affinity towards the physicals and listening to the stories and examining everything and anything about it—about the destiny that was chosen for you. The thing about getting into Hope’s Peak is that if you were any different it shouldn’t have happened, and that’s that—there is no ‘ _if, and, or, but’_ about it, if you were to be born differently—just a touch slower or just a touch weaker—it just shouldn’t have happened to you. By all means that is how Hope’s Peak chooses its subjects, and tells you that you had been given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and while it should be an honor, there’s also a nagging voice in your mind that tells you it shouldn’t have been you out of all those people—similar, talented people—there is nothing that stops the constant voice in your mind that says: be somewhere else, you should not be here.

And that was all there was to it.

Except, no—it isn’t just that. Not at all. Maybe you _should_ be here, maybe this _was_ the life perfect for you, maybe a lot had a point in saying you should take your time, but… you couldn’t wait. It had called to you, distant and beautiful like the setting of the sun over the clear, shimmering waters, whispering in its purples and oranges and blues and reds— _find me, find me, take a hold of them, seize them_. And so you did.

(It came to you, riveting and victorious—awe-inspiring and one of a kind, it had kissed you just beneath your ear, along the slope of your neck, fingers brushing the shape of your jaw and into the muscle of your chest, searing bravery and determination there, telling you that all you had to do to meet, befriend and save people was to learn how to trust. You hadn’t done it, hadn’t given it a second thought other than ‘I can’t do it yet’ and then—and then… you met her.)

She was a fighter.

She was brave.

She smiled at you, and you knew.

She trusted you. _(Always.)_

But none of that mattered, not anymore.

(It did matter actually, it mattered to you so, so much. You were just sad and angry and bitter and in love with the ghost of a girl you'll never see again.)

* * *

The first time you fall in love with her, you were stuffing your face in the cafeteria to try and drown out the panic that was slowly and slowly building up inside of you—on the verge of tears and anger. A whimper or two escaped your mouth, because this entire situation was unbelievable, really, and a sound had met you from the doorway.

You look up, and it strikes you that you know this girl in front of you.

Sakura.

You think she’s cool and inspiring, but you don’t know much about her… but she told you that you seemed like a nice person to be around and that you were one of the only people qualified enough to be her sparing partner, and that she trusted you—her words had carved its way into your heart, nestling and engraving themselves into your bones and chest; bloody, pure and raw.

You don’t know it yet, but you love her, wholly and endlessly—totally and entirely. _(Always.)_

She fixes you a glass of water, gently brushing the mess you had made away from the table, smiling and gently soothing your pride—though making sure not to give you too much hope and confidence, just enough, and is content to allow you to stumble forward, searching for what the two of you will need.

She whispers to you stories of the people she beat, and you sometimes hear words or terms you don’t fully recognize; it’s familiar to her like the long-winded names of your favorite bakeries are to you, but hers familiar in such a way that you know it must be something learned from who she trusted, who she loved and vice versa.

(Later, with a sad smile, she tells you of her family and how much they mean to her, and you fall in love.)

* * *

The second time you fall in love with her, she is holding your face in her hands and telling you that she trusts you, that you can survive.

You know that everyone’s knowledge of this situation is equally incompetent, you know that you have a lot to learn, you know that you can’t do this alone—and still your pride trips you up, lays heavy on your shoulders like a festering withered parasite, whispering words of venom and despair. It’s when she brushed her fingers through your hair, palms the lines of your arm and curve of your elbows, that you fall in love with her.

It burns now, this abyss that you’d so carelessly fallen into, the way the grey of her eyes were so hurt, so sad—the way that you’d caused an ache in her that went so unnoticed, so unloved.

But you loved her, you did. You loved her from that moment in the kitchen, the moment she’d smiled at you—you loved her as she gently held your cheeks, as she whispered words of encouragement, of strength and belief.

You loved her, you swear you did. You promised, oaths old and new, to every deity that ever existed or didn’t—that you loved her. _(Always.)_

Monokuma controls all of you, torments you, hurts you—and this may sound selfish, but you think you could never allow that thing to do anything to her. Not her—who is so good and kind and beautiful, and even though you shouldn’t love her because you would never have any kind of chance in the world, you do anyway.

You love her, so you keep your chin high.

(You know none of this was fine, honestly, but if you could stop the lesson of pain from bestowing itself like a gift upon her and the rest, it was always a risk you would find yourself taking.) 

* * *

The third time you fall in love with her, you’re telling her about your family instead. You whisper about your parents, about Yuta, about your hobbies (you played all the sports in middle school!). You tell her that you miss your father, and your brother, and your mother—you tell her that you loved them, and you have seen it in their eyes that they felt the same.

You tell her that the things you feel, you feel desperately, and you tell her why you accepted Hope’s Peak and left them behind.

It isn’t just pride, not really, it isn’t just that you wanted to make something of yourself, not just the way your parents’ eyes lit up the moment they saw the acceptance letter. It’s a goal, a mission and drive you had ever since that sunset ( _ever since something had kissed the vessels of your heart and said—_ ); it’s like a skin you can’t shed, a sense of ambition you know you could never ignore. You know it’s different from her reasons, even if you never really knew them that well, you know it’s different from the spark of glory that bursts into flames in her eyes, different from the life of fulfilment she fights to have.

But you tell her anyway, because you know that she will listen and she will understand.

Afterwards, she draws you into a hug, a deep lingering thing that sets everything inside of you on fire—like the one in her eyes.

(You may have been staring at them when you thought she wasn’t looking, just like she was looking into yours when she thought you weren’t looking.)

Sometime after this, after you tell her everything about your family and your determination and the burn you feel just inside your chest when you feel hopeless. You know that tears trickle from your eyes when you tell her that she’s amazing, and that you really don’t know how to handle any of this—and you laugh it off, making a dumb joke afterwards that falls flat and makes you look less striking than before.

She doesn’t know that you love her, and because of that you seem to love her more.

(It’s because she doesn’t need you to be something, because she is strong and steady and reminds you of the first time you joined a swimming competition, soaring spitefully through the waters and cutting through it like a bullet. Riveting. Victorious.)

She doesn’t know that you love her, and she places her hand on your shoulder, places your head on her chest—just so and just enough to hear the beat of her heart, and you know;

You’re in with love her. _(Always.)_

* * *

The fourth time you fall in love with her, everyone’s turned against you both and you are _angry_.

(She shakes her head at you, and tells you that it’s okay even when you think that it’s absolutely not. She tugs on your jacket to try encourage you, she loves it because it blends, because it’s you—Hina, red. Before she leaves you ask her if she loves jackets _or something_ , missing the point on purpose because if she loves you—really loves you, you don’t know what you might do. She smiles, the smile of a martyr, small and sad. She says _yes_ , and that is all there is to it.)

You get mad for her instead, because you tried to get over yourself and tell everyone that Sakura didn’t deserve it and she had no choice even if you knew that some of them thought otherwise—that they were too busy thinking of how to limit her _like some animal_ to ever even entertain the thought of you.

It turns out, that later, they had even hurt her, and you find yourself blowing up at the seams and falling apart, you trip up on yourself, on that suicide note and that festering heavy mass on your back that whispers that you are nothing, and you call them all a coward.

(But you’re a coward too, and you don’t believe, don’t trust in anything wholly, so you plant that container by the doorway, leave the trail of your shoes in the lab and hope for the best.)

Every move you make burns you, it builds from your legs and upward, like you were tied to something and it was set alight—and as she watches you from somewhere while the flames lick at your face, searing your unshed tears to your cheeks. She is strong, she is victorious, and she is fire. And what are you? You were her friend, and you were doomed to a life without her.

(What are you but a coward, too tripped up on things like pride and fear to ever entertain the thought that maybe you ought to start trusting—

And your chest burns, where your dreams had blessed something that wasn’t there, where her skin had brushed against yours.)

But you love her, so you smile, and pretend not to notice Kyoko looking at you carefully as all the evidence points toward you.

(In your dreams, Sakura Oogami smiles at you, and you fall in love. _Always._ )

* * *

The fifth time you fall in love you cry into the bed. It isn’t a big event, it isn’t hard or fast or messy—it’s sad, it’s slow, steady, and it’s hard to breathe. You’re still grieving but you’re more okay now; that’s what you tell yourself every hour since you found the truth and swallowed your pride, and everyone else all look upon you considerately, or as much as they allowed.

_You always forget to keep your defenses up_ , she told you once, _you always rush in and fall prey to the victim of battle_.

She is a fighter, so she knew.

(But she isn’t you, so she doesn’t know why you rush, why the desperation claws at your throat like the monster you were all meant to defy, gleaming crimson eye that matches the gush of blood that escapes your throat as you yourself claw at—)

You smile at them and apologize.

Some of them smile back at you, some scoff and look away, and says saying sorry won’t fix what she’s done, but they still have to move forward.

Your laugh is startled, breathless, and you tell them that you understand.

(Sakura wasn’t strong entirely, she made mistakes and yearned for something you can’t see, fought something you all couldn’t but she is fulfilled nonetheless, and she died protecting them, even after death.)

Hours pass, and when you’re finally in the safety of your room;

you know you were in love.

_(Always.)_

* * *

When she first loved you, it was dark.

Only it wasn’t the first time for _you_ , it was just the first that you’d actually noticed before the person in question did, and this one, this has been spelled out so obviously for you it was impossible to miss it. You knew what it was like.

In truth, the first time she loved you, you were alone with her, and you had just whispered to her why you were the way you were, why you fought so desperately and prayed they all clung to life; the falsehoods that lay in your past and the way the muscle under your chest burns so badly. In truth, she’d loved you from the moment you confided in her after the first killing game, and you had told her in a moment of fragility that she was beautiful, when it was revealed you were willing to _live_ , to try—and though you did not know it, she knew that there was never a moment that you didn’t believe, and trust.

In hope.

In theirs, at least.

(You’d trusted that no one would dare ever leave her behind, she smiled, small and rare and in that mysterious way she does, and given you a hug as you wet her coat for a good cry. You didn’t know that in that moment, you’d spoken the truth.)

It is the first time you know she loves you, and it is not at all what you’d expect.

There’s _another_ killing game, and you’re so tired of everything and then you hear shouts and pained gurgling and then silence and holy crap did someone just die—

She grabs your cheeks and tells you to keep fighting, to trust, and not to look.

There’s a look in her eye as you stand together with Makoto, in the hours to come, one that you now realize had the solemn gaze of a martyr—a fighter. She’d been like that ever since she’d gotten her forbidden action, like she knew that she’d fall and not get back up soon. You’d been afraid of it, the cold seeping into her gaze, a look you haven’t seen in forever; desperate, dark, _familiar_ —but you’d let it be, let her have her secrets, and hoped she’d turn to you eventually.

(There was a great rage building in her heart, a great blinding anger and fury on behalf of someone you know, someone you knew—but only hear stories about, and one you talk to, always.)

There is the burn in her chest.

There is the sunset— _find me, find me, protect them, protect them_.

There is a sad smile.

She’s close to you now, just a breath away, and if you wanted you think you could kiss her. It’s only really a second, but you lose yourself in an eternity of dreams and something more—one where she kisses you back, your cheek, your nose, your eyelids, one where she brushes her fingertips gently against your chest and your heart—pressing her lips there only a moment later.

A second passes, and she leans in.

When you kiss back, you fall in love. _(Always.)_

* * *

There was a story you’ve heard once, one of a warrior bathed in fire and flame, bathed and forged in battle and made better for it. It was told late in the night, a storm rages outside, and you were on the verge of falling asleep. It was a great fighter, one who fought valiantly, who protected, who knew a short life of fulfilment was better than a long one with none at all. The warrior, knew they would die, knew that their destiny was to burn in a blazing shroud of fury and vengeance and justice, for their ash and bones to be spread with the person they loved. You wrinkle your nose as your mother gently brushes your hair away and says, _if it could save you, then sacrificing my life would have no greater meaning._

There was a story your father used to tell you, too, one of a fighter who grew sporadically and listlessly, who ran through dust and dirt, and was made better for it. He told you as the sun beat down upon you and your brother, both of you covered in laughter and water—taking a break from running around the local public pool. He spoke of the warrior, blessed by judgment and ingenuity—who’d not been afraid, whose resolve was unshakable, and even through deceit and death had been believed in the life she’d created for herself. He smiled to you, eyes sparkling as he whispered the words of the great warrior, she who believed, who’d known that she would fall, riveting and victorious, but never once faltered. She made small but great gestures, eyes striking and knowing and your father says, _I am not afraid, I was born to do this._

You loved both tales, and because you know that Sakura and Kyoko embodies both of them, you love and loved them more.

Kyoko leans in, lips tingling and trapped in breath upon breath, fond and in love; she leans in and you’re in love.

Your chest burns, and you trust her with your life.

_(Always.)_


	10. celesgiri - verbs before nouns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celesgiri + modern au + ‘i’m not a fan of the cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uploading prompts onto this fic is really just me running away from proofreading the second chapter of silage. don't mind me
> 
> anyway!! :]!!! them!!

Admittedly, there’s a lot left to learn about each other; specifically the way the unrelenting cold has teeth in Celeste and latches like a hungry, gaping abyss, leaves her miserable and irritated and impatient. Her mouth slips into a pout and her eyebrows furrow, sinking further into her scarf. Kyoko tries not to laugh, and judging by the way her lips twitch at a corner, she only succeeds halfway. You look cute like that, she keeps murmuring privately. Makes me want to kiss it off your face.

“You shut up,” Celeste grumbles, buries herself even deeper in her coat. The snow billows around them, pushing and pulling playfully at her drills and her hair. They’re taking a walk around the city in search of a newer apartment to move into, and today was the only free time they could go together. “I fucking hate the cold.”

“So do a lot of people.” Kyoko points out blankly, shaking her head. “Not a special issue. Get over it, high maintenance.”

Celeste rolls her eyes and she’s rewarded with a quiet chuckle at that, warm enough despite the freezing weather; she only continues mumbling to herself, chin hidden in the fleece collar of her jacket. “You know,” Kyoko starts casually, “I can probably fix that for you.”

Celeste only harrumphs. “Probably,” she snipes. “When you could’ve done so ages ago.”

“True, true,” Kyoko nods, agreeing and taking a small step in, their shoulders brush as they trek on, “and, you’re the only one who gets to reap the rewards of it.” She says it quietly, knows Celeste will hear her over the whistling of the snow.

She smirks, a little, crooked thing, and spares a side-eye. “Well, I’m waiting,” she says, apparently pressed far enough against her limits that she’ll risk her image and their propriety, and Kyoko slips an arm around her shoulders, drags her in close. Nobody in the streets glance at them, too absorbed with their destination, wherever it may be; they don’t have the energy to yell at a couple of strangers in the middle of the sidewalks lagging behind.

It works for a time; Celeste doesn’t shiver as fiercely, keeps her complaining to a minimum. Kyoko removes her arm the moment they step into an intersection and have to cross the street, fingers trailing to Celeste’s instead before returning to where it was previously. She hums a bit, before wrapping the limb around her again.

“Well,” Kyoko says, “I can hug you right here, if you want to.”

“Whatever,” Celeste says, grumbling. “Please. I’m going to freeze to death.”

The moment Kyoko smiles at her and lets her other arm loose, Celeste spins around and nestles herself into her hold, teeth chattering. Kyoko pulls her closer, threads her fingers through Celeste’s hair at the back of her head, her other hand rubbing up and down her back. “I feel like I’m going to die,” she groans into Kyoko’s neck, cheek pressed against her shoulder.

“You won’t,” Kyoko says softly; Celeste feels her mouth slant at the tone. “Not if I can help it.”

Celeste lifts her head, breath caught in her throat; maybe it’s cold in there, cold like everything else around them. She would be cold, too, she thinks, if Kyoko weren’t there to hold it at bay. She says, voice stumbling ever so slightly, “Then you’d better keep me warm.”

Kyoko smiles, presses a kiss cutely on the tip of her nose. “As long as I'm allowed,” she says simply, and then: “There are better ways to do it, if you don’t know.” It’s stated too lightly for all the intent and implication behind it.

“Oh, are there?” She asks, and now she’s picking up pieces. She’s turned coy, flirtatious. They’re in public, but Celeste could care less when she’s impatient. They’re never allowed enough time for each other. “Such as?”

Kyoko’s fingers dip around her skull, trace the curve of her ear, draw over her jawline. Her stare holds the same weight as a blanket, the same heat of any ember and lick of flame. She’s right. There _are_ faster ways to do it.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks quietly, fingertips stalling before Celeste’s mouth. “I don’t—I don’t want to assume.”

“When it comes to me, I don’t think you ever assume,” Celeste tells her, breathless in her expectancy. “You can kiss me, whenever you’d like.”

Kyoko doesn’t wait for any further clarification, just lightly brushes their lips together with her hand cupping Celeste’s cheek; that alone rivals the relief of home and a fireplace. Celeste doesn’t let her stop, kisses her again, grip latching around the front of Kyoko’s coat and holding her there. Her shivering slows and halts; the snow around them melts a bit. The climate may as well drop off into the depths of the ocean, or turn itself into a new one.

“Mhm,” Kyoko mumbles in between kisses. “Maybe not whenever I want.”

“Why not?”

She shakes her head, but her mouth is set in a grin. “I think I wouldn’t be able to stop myself if I did,” she says, smiling at the expense of herself with a blush spreading against her cheeks, and what’s the weather with her, Celeste thinks, what’s any weather but conquerable.


	11. celeskirihina - the devil that lives in your mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celeskirihina + hope’s peak academy au + ‘a feeds b a cherry. go wild :)’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> totally unrelated thing; but someone might've noticed me switching between 'celes' and 'celeste' and i don't know for sure either. lol 
> 
> i use 'celes' for the sake of continuity when there's usage of honorifics in dialogue, because that's what she's referred to in the jp version. and i just use 'celeste' when no one is specifically referred to at all, and for the ease of sticking with the much more known english localization

“Hey,” Aoi says suddenly from the other side of the cafeteria table, interrupting an incredibly enthralling and maybe far more interesting chapter of the book Celes was reading. “Can you be honest with me for a second?”

“As if I lie to the likes of you for the rest of the time.” Celes says, snarky in response. Huh, fair, that’s one of the things Aoi really likes about her.

“You know what I mean,” Aoi pouts, leaning in and placing her jaw flat on the table. She taps her fingers against the bench. “Do I talk about Kyoko-chan too much? Do I talk to you too much? Am I, like, too loud or just annoying?”

Celes sighs heavily to herself, gaze lifting and traversing boredly around the room until she spots her target. “Kirigiri-san!” She calls, gestures the detective over with a wave of her hand. Aoi snaps her mouth shut, stare darting in horror between the two of them. This is the first step to betrayal. This is treachery. This is war. This is—

“Celes-san,” she hisses, “what the hell are you doing—”

—Kyoko walking up to them, looking entirely too hot in their academy uniform, jacket hanging over the back of the chair she’d just vacated, tie loose around her neck.

“Hm?” Kyoko says, and her eyes slip to them both, smile curving automatically. “What is it?”

“Hi,” Aoi says back with a smile of her own, staring at her with too much breath left stranded in her lungs. There was something before her, Aoi thinks, but can’t remember what it was; she was annoyed, maybe, afraid.

“Asahina-san has a few questions for you,” Celeste says, strained and polite; oh, yeah, that _was_ it—she’s enjoying this, digging Aoi her grave. Leaking to their mutual crush knowing she wasn’t on an even playing field with their mind games, the fucking _snitch_. Kyoko merely raises her eyebrows, shifting her weight between feet.

“Oh?” She asks, but Aoi can’t manage to speak at all now that the time has come. It’s so predictable, so fitting. She runs her mouth incessantly until she doesn’t.

“Yes,” Celes says smoothly for her, nodding. “She was wondering if she talked both about you and to me too much, as well as if she was too loud or just annoying. I was hoping you could help me answer.”

Kyoko seems to process Celes’ plight slowly, blinking perplexedly at her, but when she glances to Aoi for confirmation she receives nothing but an audible gulp.

“Uh,” Aoi says, tongue uncomfortably dry, parched and cracked earth long before rain.

Kyoko’s smile disguises itself, plays kind, becomes something assuring. “I can probably do that,” she says, and slips onto the bench beside Aoi. “No; not enough; not that quiet, but not annoying, either. Frankly, I’m better with honesty.”

Her irises remind Aoi theoretically of a sunset, all its poetry and replications, something purple that glitters and gleams and warms. Well, all she’s ever needed to know is exactly where she stands. “Then,” Aoi says, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Uh—I’ve been told I was a good kisser. Heh.”

“Really now?” Celes says with an enigmatic smile, looking like someone’s given her too much ammo and she was ready to tide the entire conversation over. “Would you like to prove that?”

“I, uh—I haven’t actually kissed anyone,” Aoi says conversationally, tapping on the tabletop with a nervous giggle. “Weird rumors, or something. You know.”

“Maybe we can test that theory,” Kyoko answers, her voice dropping low, plucking a cherry from a nearby bowl.

Aoi gulps, stares. Kyoko brings the cherry to her lips, watches her mouth instinctually wrap around the fruit and suck, breaking from the stem. Her middle finger touches Aoi’s bottom lip. Somewhere across from them, Celes lets out an amused hum.

Kyoko places her chin on her palm, watching her carefully. Out of the corner of her eye, Celes’ eyes train on them and stay, anticipatory, predatory. She holds the fruit between her teeth, slips it in, swallows with a discernible sound.

“How’s that for honesty?” She asks casually.

When they kiss her a few moments later, _maybe_ she isn’t too surprised.


	12. celesgiri - what if it’s all just a black abyss (with you and i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celesgiri + vague canon setting, groundhog day/time loop au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one prompt for today! time loop aus are usually done with protagonists, but it's kind of funny to me when it chooses to manifest in someone who's barely got a grasp on what really happened in the killing game. kind of like the confused mr. krabs meme, but worst.

Here’s the beginning, but not quite the end:

Celestia Ludenburg dies as the third trial’s blackened.

The first time it happens, the thought occurs to her briefly; she’s never died before (no, not yet) and she’s entirely preoccupied with the embers licking at her feet, the smoke clogging her throat, the way the world starts to blur and darken at the edges, how she hears (dimly, faintly) the sound of sirens and someone calling out her name.

(If she’d known how many times she was going to experience the exact same sensations, she wouldn’t have bothered remembering them at all.)

When she wakes again, she’s in a classroom on the first day of the killing game, and that’s when it really occurs to her that something strange might be going on.

The first time Celestia Ludenburg dies, it’s as the third trial’s blackened. The second, third, sixteenth, twenty-seventh, thirty-fifth, fourty-ninth, and all the times in between and after, she dies somewhere and sometime else, but never making it to the end.

The fifty-fifth time she dies, it’s as the fourth victim (she’s quite proud of making it that far, an elaborate scheme she’s constructed in the timespan of three or so loops that will supposedly reveal the contents of the headmaster’s room, one that she unfortunately never saw the results of); she feels terribly pleased about that when she wakes up again (on the first day). But then, the fifty-sixth time she dies is special for a reason.

(Or, no—not the dying part, of course, but the moments she spends before it, tucked away, alone, nearly forgetting every death she’s ever died.

‘Not everything is as it seems, isn’t it?’ The whisper catches on the shell of her ear, as soft as the grasp on her hand.)

She dies on the fifth trial this time around.

She wakes on the first day of the killing game.

And nothing changes, so she is pulled by the tide again.

* * *

Nothing changes and it begins like this:

“Great,” Kuwata huffs to himself. “Just _another_ day in paradise.”

Kuwata and Maizono are alive this time, mostly because Celeste had remembered at just the last minute to ‘casually’ walk by the idol and talk a few, choice words with her last night as the girl was about to switch her and Naegi’s nameplates; a smooth, rehearsed and practiced routine that she’s seen effective far too many times already—subtly pushing her at a better, less-bloody direction. The atmosphere is as tense as she recalls it to be, sharp and digging into her skin like needles, and if Celeste had gotten more than four or five hours of sleep a night for the past loops, she might have tossed and turned on her bedroll until morning because of it. But as it is, she’d been able to find some semblance of peace with the accommodations. It’s not Monokuma-free, it’s no mansion, but the what’s in the air is still less than what she’s used to experience, and creating a unique scent that Celeste had always associated with luxury, growing up in a less fortunate part of the country, (always) touched by poverty and unrest.

“A great day for mystery and intrigue,” Naegi mumbles sarcastically, sinking into the cafeteria bench between Asahina and Kirigiri. “The sun is probably shining outside, the bear is still murderous, and tomorrow, we have to find our way out in territory that’s enemy-controlled for as much as we know.”

“Just another day over the other side of paradise, like you said, Kuwata-kun!” Enoshima sings, tapping out a rhythm on the cafeteria table (which matches no known popular tune or reference to pop culture that Celeste’s heard, she’s pretty sure; Enoshima is a strange individual with a secret or two to hide). “At least it was a quiet night, yeah? Not much bullshit to deal with.”

“Ugh,” Hagakure groans into the table. “Please let there be a sign.”

Making an effort to act like she used to the first time, she’s greeted by Asahina’s wide and hopeful eyes as she hands her a donut, optimistic as always. Over the loops and as their numbers went down, Celeste’s seen it lose some of their spark and though she may loathe to admit it, it’s killed her to notice every time, blue dimming when sixteen had gone from fourteen to eleven to nine, but right now she smiles, effortless. Celeste returns it politely because Asahina probably needs her to, because after many tries to get out of this _damned and forsaken god-awful hellhole,_ complying is still easier than resisting, and because it’s better than giving into the mess of emotions inside of her that are more easily accessible, being here again.

(She had befriended Asahina and a few others in her many, many loops once; it was a nice fellowship while it lasted, or so she’d seen. But then in that loop Asahina died from blunt force trauma to the head—a few hours later—Oogami died against Monokuma in her reaction to the former’s death, and Celeste came to realize that friendship will only mean something when it lasts, but in the face of something like _this_ it meant shit—all when the torment never stopped. When worse and worse things flooded out of Monokuma’s mouth and whittled away the remaining optimism in their grasp.)

“Sounds like you guys needs to eat breakfast to me,” Oowada shrugs and raises his legs over the table, and Ishimaru (who, Celeste notes amusedly, knew had initially little patience for the delinquent) chides him with a passive-aggressive warning.

She’s never actually escaped without some sort of damage. She’s never made it past the fifth trial at most, even as a murderer or a victim or both, really, most of it ending up as mental scars that serve as a reminder of whatever endless and torturous dream she was in, should she be in one at all. But staring at her classmates now as all of them eat together for the morning, Celeste knows this part of the loop had been lucky, and she was safe.

At least for another day.

* * *

Celeste has always been content to slip into riptides, confident in her ability to lie and thrive through wherever she’s pulled, but she’s still surprised when the drift takes her somewhere new, to the very edge of the bubble of revelry, walking through the hallways past her proposed curfew (that she remembered to propose again, a bit earlier this time). Here, it’s darker. Quiet. It’s almost cool, the night no longer kept in check by the sweltering warmth of bodies and voices brushing together, all of that’s sleeping behind closed doors. Solitude can be a pitfall, but when she looks up and finds the cafeteria bright, she’s surprised again, pleasantly so, and steps into it further, finds a foothold at the entrance and walks in, compelled by forces once again outside her control, but different this time (an enticing whisper rather than a forceful current; she follows rather than being pulled).

She should be surprised one time more—twice lucky—when she steps in and Kirigiri Kyoko is sitting there. And she is, but not in the same way. She’s not surprised that something had been waiting for her, but that this something had been better than expected. Because she’d expected something conceivable and instead, she’d gotten a deep breath of old books on a summer day, the first few notes of a song whistled tunelessly through someone’s lips, the press of an impossible galaxy in her palm. It’s outside of her scope of possible (she’s never dared talk to Kirigiri in all her loops until now, in lieu of her strange ability to see through her), and so she doesn’t react, merely sits down a few ways alongside the detective and mirrors her posture, crossing her legs, facing the darkened cafeteria windows and out towards the void.

“Do you think it’s true that ninety-four percent of all life lives underwater?”

It’s an incomprehensible question from someone like Kirigiri, but then, they’re in an incomprehensible setting, so Celeste rolls with it.

“We can never say for sure at the moment, but I hope it is.”

There’s just enough light—from the ones overhead, their metaphorical stars and moon—for the small curve at the corner of Kirigiri’s lips to be clear, to highlight the pocket that forms at the very edge when she smiles. This is a woman who appreciates a novel response, apparently, and Celeste doesn’t know why, but she aches to give her more.

“Why do you say so?”

“There’s always something left to find if you’ve run out of things to discover.”

“When will we ever find the time to do that?” Kirigiri asks, though the curl of her mouth is still there, more pronounced than before.

“Perhaps later,” Celeste says vaguely, and because she’s tired but she still wants it to be true, she adds, “And after.”

“After.” Kirigiri repeats it to herself like she’s pressing the word against her palette, trying to determine if she likes the taste. “And if there isn’t an after?”

Celeste hums, her back against the side of the table. “There’s always an after. Maybe not one we’ll like, but it’ll be there.” She turns to the woman next to her, takes in the pronounced cut of her jaw and the purple of her eyes. “There isn’t meaning if there’s no after.”

“There is no meaning if there is no after.” Kirgiri agrees, leans back and turns too, a half tilt of her head, and Celeste’s caught on her eyes again, a softer purple now, but still a trench (all undiscovered forms of life might be found there rather than the darkness and Celeste wouldn’t be surprised).

Behind and below them, the sound of the silence swells again, a call to the current, Celeste’s sure. It’s been so long since she’s been alone with someone else so earnestly, so long since she wasn’t in presence of mass, but somehow, she finds she doesn’t feel as though she’s missing out. Not while she’s here. Here, it’s quiet and strange, but Celeste settles into it easily, more comfortable in something new. (Ironically, being out of her comfort zone was what used to unsettle her the most, but the killing game and the loops have probably done very questionable things to her psyche at this point.)

“I can never decide if I like that uncertainty better than people expecting too much.” Kirigiri says quietly, doesn’t sigh or drop her shoulders, nothing so obvious as to express the burden that is precisely that.

“Is that why you’re here then? No one around to estimate you at all?” She offers a smile, this one wry. “Until me, but I will be honest with you; I am not estimating.”

“I’ve known that, but I’m still relieved.” Kirigiri starts slowly, but then stops, gaze tracing over Celeste’s face like she’s looking for something in particular, though Celeste couldn’t begin to guess what. “You know a lot more than you let on.”

The unexpectedness of the response makes her laugh, which makes Kirigiri’s smile grow, small but substantial, and there’s confusion there too, in the slight pinch of her brows.

“My apologies, I’m just—” The laugh dies down, but her smirk remains in place. “It just seems like there’s more weight to that accusation than what you’re making me like to think.”

“…maybe.”

Kirigiri doesn’t appear to be bothered, lips tilting in amusement as she shifts her legs off its crossed position and sets them both onto the floor. Celeste would have to be blind to miss the way the muscles of her arms strain against her jacket with the adjustment, gloved hands pressing into the bench and supporting the rest of her weight nearly effortlessly; the close observation does make her a liar (though her estimating is of an entirely different sort), but Kirigiri lets it go without comment, only the slight crinkle of her eyes—still entertained rather than displeased—giving away that she’d noticed at all. She also doesn’t move away when the motion places her leg directly against Celeste’s, the canvas of her skirt rubbing against her frills and her dress (so maybe there’s more to it than courtesy).

“Why are you here,” Celeste asks, and in the long pause that follows, she holds her breath, “really?”

There isn’t an easy answer to the question, mainly because there isn’t an answer at all. Following Celeste’s lead, Kirigiri looks away, peering into the darkness, and says, “Holding onto a thread.”

“Of what?”

“I can’t tell you—because I don’t know.” Kirigiri says honestly—that much she can tell from the deepening crease of her brow, the continued weight of her stare against the side of Celeste’s face. “This space. A bit of it unwinds and if you don’t follow it, you’re gone.”

There’s bigger implications behind that statement, Celeste thinks, but she can’t pinpoint what and where yet.

“Somehow,” she tsks, but leans in a little to brush her shoulder against Kirigiri’s, no hard feelings intended, but hardly minding the closeness either. “No afters and no fate. I can understand.”

She turns to find Kirigiri thoughtful at the end of it all, though it’s tempered by a probing stare that spreads after a moment’s pause—she’s looking at her like she’s something unprecedented—and it’s funny, how the middle ground for each was entirely the same, this curious sort of lightness. Funnier still, that it’s exactly where they found themselves, for just this moment in time.

“Do you mean that?”

(Today, she will hold onto the thread the universe has offered, and keep pulling at it until it runs out.)

“I do.”

A beat of silence, and then;

Kirigiri stills, and takes in an inhale for the both of them.

“I think… I should’ve gotten to know you sooner.”

* * *

(Celestia Ludenburg dies. She wakes up. She fights. She dies. The game stays the same, the situations barely change. Celeste wakes up, she fights, she dies. She also found another one stuck in the same loop, by the way— one repeated day in a moment of time— with the one woman who could possibly understand, even past the resets. Surely enough, Celeste gets used to the dying part, but not so much with the look in Kirigiri’s eyes that used to tell her she was nothing more than a stranger.)


	13. kirihina - canonization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: kirihina + angels/demons au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two prompts today, and this one is one of the rare prompts with a one-worded title. 
> 
> anyway, i love aus like these. mainly because of the aesthetic.

To be frank, Hina’s had enough of the council meeting schtick. Especially when they all revolve around a matter she would totally thrive in without really allowing her to speak.

She’s still too young, the Thrones have said; she won’t be taking over the mantle of the Powers for years to come, but it’s a requirement that she attend anyway, just to learn the ropes or something. And she’s so _bored_. With the rank she’s involved in, she’s not supposed to travel beyond her borders, and the mortal realm is only allowed to the lowest choir, messengers, guardians, and envoys for exit; only those concerned with human affairs—she’s so contained, constricted. She’s a free spirit, they say. She sure as _hell_ doesn’t feel like it.

And so she runs. There’s no reason not to.

But she doesn’t run far.

She makes a stop at The Span, the delicate world between mankind and theirs, a place low-ranking angels—like the ones she knows will be sent to search for her—can’t think of seeing her in. It’s an illusion of paradise humans like to believe exists; lush and green forests, healing fountains, no pain, no anguish, no hesitation. She manages to sneak by the other angels rejuvenating themselves at the rivers and a waterfall, traipses through the woods and into a clearing, flowers spilling over the grass and the sun eternally shining down.

It’d be the perfect place to unwind, relax, be herself away from it all, except that it isn’t empty.

There’s a girl standing in the center of it, horns visible even over her head, her back to Hina, silver hair cascading down her back and over her shoulders. As free as the woods they’re in. She doesn’t seem to feel Hina’s presence, because all she does is stay exactly as she is, the ground blooming and dying in a cycle around her.

The thing about demons is that they are too spiteful to see how breakable they are, that’s the first thing Hina thinks. How easy it’d be for her to walk up behind the woman, make a spear out of the earth, eradicate her and send her back to hell for rebirth. Except that nothing— _nothing_ dies here. Not even demons. Nothing too exciting ever happens.

She doesn’t realize how close she’s moved, subconsciously on the edge of doing exactly what she’d daydreamed about, until she’s interrupted. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice wrapped in amusement rings out, “I have to say, I didn't expect a princess of Powers to be here.”

Hina freezes steadily, caught off-guard, and even more startled to be recognized by sense alone. The girl glances at her, a small and humoured smile on her face, and _crap_ , Hina’s possibly made some mistakes. “Uh,” she says brilliantly, because she’s definitely not supposed to be talking to a demon, and she’s pretty sure one shouldn’t even be here. “I can go wherever I want,” is what slips out of her mouth next, defiant, wary and unobstructed.

The girl’s mouth curls further. “I’m sure,” she says, slowly turning to her fully; strangely she’s sheathed in dark robes instead of the usual wear and tear she’s seen demons in, and it occurs to Hina how out of place she looks, compared to the environment around them. “Nobody is searching for you, then? I have a hard time believing someone of your rank can wander off without sending half your domain into a panic.”

“How the heck do you know who I am?” Hina asks bluntly. “And I don’t think so. No one too important is looking for me, and because sending the kingdom into a wild goose chase is something they wouldn’t want to do—like, at all.”

“So you left of your own free will.” The girl says with a thoughtful look. “I don’t want to be listed as your captor, you know. I have made quite a lot of time to get here. It's a lot of hours spent in secrecy to avoid rousing suspicion.”

Hina laughs unexpectedly at the response and is immediately startled to hear herself do so. She observes the woman closer, more carefully. They’ve met before; they must have. All royalty are introduced, and gained royalty is even greater. The horns, the broken cross in the center of her neck, her hair… there’s something devastatingly familiar about her. “Carreau,” Hina says suddenly, the recognition coming to her. Oh _shit_ , from the second hierarchy. This is really, really bad.

“That is a name assigned to me, but not the one I’ve chosen.” She says flatly, seemingly uncaring of all the punishments that could befall the two of them if they’re caught coercing. “A name I’ve made for myself is Kyoko, if you feel comfortable using it.”

“Kyoko,” Hina repeats, finds her tone softer than she intends. “Should’ve known you weren’t some other demon.”

“And why’s that?”

Hina puffs out her cheeks, gestures plainly. “I mean—for one, you’re really pretty,” she lets slip, and shuts her mouth abruptly. Kyoko’s eyes seem to twinkle along with the lavender growing around them. Hina hastens to change the subject. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Self-reflection,” Kyoko says, allows the shift between them. “Responsibility is a heavy weight to carry—I’m sure you can understand.”

“Are like, demons of your rank even… allowed to say that?”

Kyoko raises an eyebrow at the response, lets out a chuckle once, delicately. “Perhaps not,” she says charmingly. “But not one soul would ever know.”

“Heh—so we’re here for the same reason,” Hina says, crossing her arms with a smile. “We’re both lawbreakers now.”

Kyoko merely hums, steps closer to her. Strangely, it doesn’t ignite the urge inside of her to run. “The law is meaningless,” she says, and Hina’s eyebrows raise high, her stare dropping to Kyoko’s mouth. “I broke it the second I went here. You, on the other hand, acknowledged my presence and didn’t alert your subordinates from the Vanguard.”

“Huh,” Hina shrugs, her wariness fading and falling. “I guess you’re right.”

“Why didn’t you?” Kyoko asks her quietly.

Hina stops directly in front of her, lets her eyes paint across Kyoko’s face, her mouth, the line of her jaw, the curve of her collarbone, the way the wind teases her hair. “I always see a lot of beautiful things,” she murmurs, and raises a hand, intimately brushing her thumb across Kyoko’s bottom lip, “but you’re different. I know it.”

“We could run,” Kyoko whispers, similarly enthralled.

“Run?” She doesn’t know why she even asks, why she allows it, what strikes the need within her, only that there’s something about Kyoko’s soul clutching her close, like a second of contact is all that’s ever been needed for every form of yearning she’s ever known. “You mean like—”

“With me.”

“But why me though?” Hina asks, but she’s less thrown by the request than she herself expects her to be. “Why me?”

“I can’t describe it very well but—don’t you feel it?” Kyoko breathes out, her hand winding around Hina’s waist. _Oh,_ they could absolutely be tried on sight for this. “I think we met for a reason.”

“You’d risk Hell for me?” Hina blinks, but her hands have settled on Kyoko’s shoulders. “After… what? You’ve only met me _today_.”

“No, we’ve met before,” Kyoko says, and the recollection is instantaneous. A vision; black wings, fog and a flash of light. She could never forget this girl, not sure how she convinced herself she did. “That’s how you knew it was me. We met somewhere at the borders, years ago. You kept staring at me, like you couldn’t help yourself. I didn’t want you to, but I knew.”

Hina’s eyes only dart between hers, and she tugs her bottom lip into her mouth. “This has to be a mistake,” she says quietly, her eyelashes fluttering. “There’s—it _can’t_ be. It never should’ve been you and me. I feel it, too. But it’s wrong. We can be _stripped_ for this.”

“I know,” Kyoko says. The sun burns overhead, and despite her reluctance, not a single decision Hina’s made that day really feels like a fault. “But up there, they don’t make mistakes. I’m not going to be the first one to hold them accountable for it.” She shifts her head, dips forward, lets their mouths almost meet in the middle; the sun still glimmers overhead, the flowers still bloom, Kyoko’s a breath away. They’re not dead, and nothing’s happened that shouldn’t have if the universe has a say in it. “Run away with me.”

“Yeah, okay.” Hina says, her smile free and unyielding, and Kyoko’s lips twitch at a corner—more overjoyed at the prospect than she appears to be. Let their kingdoms collapse, let their realms fall, let their titles fade to dust. They can’t steal away what you’re born to find. “Do you know a place?”

“Mhm,” Kyoko takes her hand, and they run. “I do.”


	14. celesgiri - and through the spaces of the shadows; you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celesgiri + noble/assassin au + the inherent homoeroticism of wall pinning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for all the stuff i write, i've never done celesgiri with this scenario; mainly because of me being sad all the time and relying on self-gratification with happy scenarios (lol).
> 
> reminder that wall pinning only really, really Works if its rivals and/or enemies doing it. and if it's gay. especially if it's gay.

An assassin isn’t exactly the career path Kyoko thought she’d end up following, but life’s had a funny way of working out in the way she’d always needed it to.

There are a lot of powerful people in the world, these days, and they’re all at war with each other in various ways—someone with the ability to take them out is always for hire, always viable and sustainable. She’s really good at it, among other skills. That’s the important thing.

Byakuya Togami—crown prince of a nearby kingdom, calls her in for a meeting; Kyoko couldn’t say no even if she wanted to. The man in question taking in a private audience is unheard of, and a name almost untraceable as hers even more so. He only apparently does this for extremely high-profile clients, or people he knows will be difficult to kill; that, or he’s planning on misusing Kyoko for some political power play—it’s a game he will win in, he would say. Prick.

But something’s different, she can tell; he’s markedly serious than what she’s seen of him in public masses and hearings, his mouth fighting a grimace. “Kyoko Kirigiri,” he says, “I have a personal request.”

“ _You_ want someone dead.” Kyoko says carefully.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking,” Byakuya says shortly. “Her name is Celestia Ludenberg. The reputable Queen of Liars, suspected ringleader of several illegal gambling rings across the continent. These are precious pieces of information most wouldn’t know. She’s a particularly well-respected noble, but she always moves around. Find her.”

So Kyoko does exactly what she’s told. Queen of Liars—she’s heard that name before, though this was the first time she’s offered to Kyoko as a target; the payout on that hit is likely to be huge, but not that she really needs the funds at the moment. It’s more like a point of pride, a resume.

Only the Queen of Liars is not at all what she expects, because she certainly doesn’t expect to find herself pinned to the wall with her own sword held to her throat, red eyes gleaming at her from the darkness.

“Who sent you?” Celestia whispers against her mouth, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of one of Kyoko’s knives, and her gaze trails openly up and down Kyoko’s body. Her coat’s shredded on the floor and her hood’s burning away at a fireplace, leaving her open, her arms showing. “You’re… definitely the most closest that’s ever been sent to kill me.”

Oh, that roaming stare, Celestia’s grip on her chin, her lips curled deliciously—Kyoko frowns, fighting back a swallow. Her job usually consists of murdering aristocrats—power-hungry, chauvinistic, corrupt aristocrats—never women her age with eyes the color of blood before it spills and equipped with the knowledge of sorcery of all things. She’s good at her job, but fighting back against magic—formerly a myth—is nowhere near her area of expertise.

“You’re the first one who’s caught me,” Kyoko says pointedly, narrowing her eyes.

Celestia chuckles, her grip loosening; she lowers Kyoko’s weapon, abruptly taking a step away from her. She tosses it back, and Kyoko catches it, now far beyond disconcerted, dumbfounded. “Ah, well, since we’re so aligned with each other,” Celestia says, “it would be a shame to kill you.”

“You’re… letting me go.” Kyoko says blankly, finding herself more disappointed with the prospect than she should be.

“I am,” Celestia says, smirk sinister and beckoning. “You can’t really kill me, but I would like to see you try.”

“…I don’t think I can, seeing what you can do.” Kyoko says, and Byakuya’s face comes to mind, fingers linked under his chin and a tone too forced for indifference. It hits her suddenly. “The bastard wanted to get me killed,” she murmurs to herself, annoyance apparent.

Celestia raises an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with my offer?”

“No,” Kyoko says, and lowers her sword, her posture still coiled and stiff. “Byakuya Togami sent me.”

Celestia reacts similarly to how Kyoko thinks she will; the recognition is there, amusement and displeasure coming together in an odd mix underneath. “So he did,” she says.

“He wanted you to kill me,” Kyoko clarifies bluntly, and Celestia blinks once, laughs again. When she meets Kyoko’s eyes, hers have turned to a red sharper than a weapon, even carrying the threat of one.

“I won’t give him the satisfaction,” Celestia says in a droll sort of voice, rolling her eyes. She’s entirely different in person; maybe even more than what she wants her to think. “He must not like you.”

“Not a lot of people would,” Kyoko agrees, “considering what I do.”

“Or maybe he was expecting you to come through and kill me instead,” Celestia says quietly, steps closer again. “Considering what I do as well.”

Kyoko raises her sword slightly, gripping on her sheath. Celestia scoffs with an eye-roll, her hand finding the fabric of Kyoko’s shirt instead, tugs her lightly in, something playful, something dangerous. “Well,” she says with a smirk, “Perhaps I can give you one more attempt, so I’ll take whatever’s coming next.”

“You'll regret it the next time I'll come for you,” Kyoko says, gritting her teeth. “You won’t even see me coming.”

Celestia smiles at her, coy. "And I can't wait for it."


	15. celesgiri - these words they have big teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celesgiri, background and implied naegami + fake dating au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two prompt today. fake dating aus are always a delight.

"Hey,” Kyoko says breathlessly upon Celes opening their door, stomping the snow off of her boots; the flurry falls thick out to the red mat below her, white flakes still clinging to her hair and blending in. “I need a favor. Thank you, by the way; I think I left my keys.”

“Elaborate,” Celes answers immediately despite the lack of context, allowing Kyoko to slip into the apartment. “And yes, you did. They’re sitting on the bookshelf over there. You wouldn’t forget those if you slept more.”

“I know, and thanks.”

“So?” Celes says, raising an eyebrow, the door shutting fluidly behind them; Kyoko’s working her boots off, drops them one at a time in their entryway nook with the rest of their shoes.

“I had a meeting with Togami-kun again. It’s not about the firm for once, and we discussed a few things,” she starts, gloved fingers moving to her scarf and unravelling it, but her eyes drop to Celes’ gaudy, black patterned silk robe. “That’s the fourth one you’ve bought this week. You look nice.”

“Thank you, but please focus.”

“Right,” she says, tosses the scarf and her coat over the back of their sofa, proceeds to move into the kitchen with her attention clearly distracted and divided. “He’s holding a Christmas party—which I’m sure is just an official excuse to choose donors for the corp, but I get the feeling that he and Naegi-kun are in the middle of reconciling,” she says, popping open the fridge and rummaging around for a sandwich she swore she prepared the night before, “and I'm in the middle, which is nauseating by the way--but I’m an adult. I’ve chosen kindness. I’ll let it go.”

“You are too merciful,” Celes says dryly, biting back a chuckle as she leans on the kitchen counter. Their heat kicks on in the background, warm air pulsing through the vents; Kyoko feels her hairs twitch against the rush.

“It’s jarring.” Kyoko straightens up with a zip bag of chocolates they normally keep for guests, but they don’t allow much visitors during the holidays. “He sounded… giddy. I’m happy for him, but it’s still rather bizarre seeing him like that.”

“I see,” Celes giggles. “So what’s my place in this favor of yours?”

She slides the bag open, passes a sweet to Celes. “Date me,” she says blankly, crumpling a used packet and throwing it into the trash.

There’s a long moment of pause while Celes processes the proposition; she’s not dissecting the sincerity, only the angle. “…what?”

“From the end of this month to the beginning of February, at the very least,” Kyoko continues with a flourish, swallowing the sweet and sighing after. “I wasn’t in the best headspace this afternoon. As usual, he was trying to get under my skin, but I think it was working. He was bragging about getting Naegi-kun to like him again. It led to one thing after another and—”

“And?”

“And I told him I was seeing someone.”

“And is that someone—”

“You, in particular.”

Celes laughs; a lilted, breathy thing. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” Kyoko shakes her head. “Though you can imagine how much he’ll hate having to be proven wrong again with supporting his associate’s new, budding romance in front of Naegi-kun. With you, no less. He’ll have an awakening.”

Celes’ lips quirk up at the vision, amused; Kyoko knows she can’t deny the hilarity of it. Togami Byakuya’s hard to catch off-balance, prideful and arrogant and entirely unwilling to accept criticism from anyone he didn’t value as equal; Celes had met him by association multiple times over the years, made scathing back-and-forths, and listened to him subtly point out the failures of Kyoko’s and her friend Naegi’s detective firm—which were objectively few and far in between—without bothering to take a microscope to his own. The two of them in a relationship would absolutely drive him up the wall, over the edge, hammer every nail in the coffin from the fall.

“That’s true,” she muses, pops the chocolate into her mouth; the slight caramel aftertaste at least makes the confection tolerable, though it seems she’ll never understand Kyoko’s preference. “It definitely wouldn’t be a waste of my time.”

“And,” Kyoko starts airily. “We’re roommates. Nobody would suspect a thing.”

Celes laughs, somehow unexpecting of the remark despite the fact that Kyoko makes them all the time. “Well, when you put it like that,” she says mischievously, “why do we even have to pretend, dear?”

“You’re not wrong,” Kyoko says, chuckling. “I’ve been figuring you out for years.”

“Maybe it’s your time, Kirigiri-san,” Celes teases. “You’ve finally worn me down.”

“Will you do it then?”

“Why not?” She says rhetorically, appearing to now fully warm up to the concept. “It’s a win for both sides. I spend the holidays with you instead of god-knows-what is going to be held at the casino, and we drive Togami-kun crazy in the process.”

Kyoko smiles, zips the bag shut and puts the sweets back in the fridge. “Cheers,” she says delightedly. “For supporting my bad ideas, Celes-san.”

“It’s a rare occasion, and I’d like to see it to the end.”

“Of course you would.”

The snow whistles on outside, but Kyoko swears Celes’ answering smirk could burn through a blizzard. In her age, there are no bad ideas and nothing hurts, not much and not anymore.

That’s what she thinks, at first.

* * *

The ride to downtown isn’t long and nothing’s ever boring when they’re together, anyway; they’ve been thriving solely off of each other’s attention for years now. The rest of the population around them may as well not even exist: the highway’s empty, all the cars are unoccupied; it’s just the two of them soaking in their own idle conversation—Celes quizzes her on stupid, random facts she’s reading from her phone. To keep you on your feet, she says with a grin. Kyoko’s convinced it’s to get on her nerves; not that she doesn’t mind both.

Kyoko _can_ be fun, that’s not a lot would get about her.

She isn’t moody or antisocial; she’s just somewhat quiet, choosing to speak only when it best benefits the situation, a witty remark thrown in, an insightful comment here and there—unless she’s with Celes, and then the two of them can keep a conversation going for hours, or lapse into a silence so comfortable they might as well be sharing skin.

Naegi spots them once they park in the corporation lot. They find him waiting with Togami's car at the curb, other guests passing him by further down the lines, grumbling about deadlines and paperwork. He immediately wraps Kyoko in a hug that nearly knocks the air out of her, squeezing her half to death. Her suitcase clatters against the ground but fortunately doesn’t spring open. Celes hovers leisurely, not bothered and not helping; the curb’s pretty icy, the snow billowing, and the chain of events which could lead to Kyoko sprawled across the freezing pavement are more likely than anyone would think.

“You guys!” He says, finally loosening his grip without letting her go. “It’s great to see you two! I’m so happy to have Celes-san even joining us this year!”

She pats him on the back. “Thanks for having us,” she greets warmly, meeting Celes’ eyes over his shoulder. “It’s great to see you, too.” Celes meets her stare, giving Kyoko a very deliberate get-to-it look, one eyebrow quirking.

Kyoko picks up on it with a slight incline of her head. It’s almost instinctual, they’ve mastered the art of facial shorthand. “Naegi-kun,” she starts as he releases her, aiming for indifference, “there’s actually something we need to tell you.”

He gives Celes a friendly handshake next, and it’s obviously more grounded than her greeting. She might as well be a walking safety hazard. “What, are you pregnant or something?”

“Very funny, Naegi-kun.”

He laughs as he pulls away. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“We’re dating,” Kyoko says, states it like she’s had the right to all along and never utilized it, prideful tone lining the in-betweens; the corner of Celes’ lips flick, smile pulling at her mouth in a familiar, comfortable strain. He blinks once, humor dying on his mouth, stare falling blank.

The silence that follows is nearly uncomfortable, populated by the noise of the crowds around them, dragging the wheels of their bags through the snow and managing to stick despite the salt. Someone's shoveling through it behind them, huffing to themselves. Naegi’s gaze turns to astonishment, mouth opening in the world’s slowest formation of words.

“ _No_ ,” he gasps.

“Yes,” Celes confirms for them, humorously rolling her eyes.

A daze overtakes him similar to a chill from the weather, waiting for one of them to crack and say _just kidding!,_ pull the rug out, split the earth wide open. Kyoko counts in her head, gets to around nine or ten before he breaks into a wide grin, apparently accepting it as truth. Luckily.

“Finally!” he exclaims, raising a hand to tug at Kyoko’s arm; she smacks his hand away, smile quickly turning into a grimace. “Oh, this is awesome!”

Celes coughs beside them, gesturing with a jerk of her head, and only then do they realize they’re technically still in the parking lot; he hurriedly rushes to the office lobby as Kyoko signs their names at the reception. Once they’re together again, he continues, “I was starting to get really worried, you know. I thought you’d never figure it out!”

“Figure what out?” Kyoko asks, distracted by the decorated hallways; she forgets how clinical Togami’s establishment is until she’s walking through it, experiencing it herself. She doesn’t do it much—Naegi’s their firm’s liaison with Togami, after all.

“That you were in love with each other, obviously!” He half-laughs, tossing her an amused glance as he takes off his beanie, one of the strands immediately standing up and defying physics as he does. “Wow, it’s been _forever_.”

“Oh, right,” Kyoko says convincingly, gazing out the windows and finding her reflection, grounded and content. The company gardens play as backdrop, leaves her only with mirrors. “I always knew. It wasn’t just the right time.”

“Until now, yeah?” He asks, finishing for her.

She pauses strangely, taking in her own expression; the problem with mirrors is that there are no ways to hide from them, showing her only what’s already there, visible and present. She focuses on Celes a few ways away beside her reflection, serenely looking at the environment across the windows, and Kyoko’s heart may as well be beating outside of her chest, her hands empty and pointless.

Storms that make landfall are so abundant, and yet, and yet. “Right,” she says, though the confirmation sticks to her throat, syrupy and thick. Heavy and hulking. Celes smiles without knowing Kyoko can see her; there’s something else more worth looking at. “Until now.”

So, there's a round she doesn't win, and this entire affair will possibly devolve into a huge mess, but she counts the realization as its own kind of victory. For the moment, at least.


	16. celeshina - turning (you) inside out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celeshina + modern/high school au + 'take the compliment’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shdjshfj i--uh. this is so unnecessarily short. but i think i remember writing this on 4am so that explains the short, atrocious length. 
> 
> anyways, i think this was my first time writing celeshina?? i like them a lot too, but i don't show that.

It’s a Friday night over summer break when the revelation hits, and nothing’s even happening.

Hina’s sprawled out over on the couch, eating pizza and watching some popular horror flick on television. Celeste’s head is resting on her lap, short black hair spilling out over her thighs like running ink, and Hina tosses her other arm casually across her stomach, purely because there’s nowhere else comfortable to put it. Celeste shifts her head occasionally, automatic reactions to every skin-crawling sound effect, the creaking of doors, footsteps in the night, sudden screeching apparitions, phantoms in the dark. Hina’s dangling a slice above her mouth carelessly, cheese slippery against the marinara.

“If any of that drops on me,” Celeste says, watching the bottom tear under the combined weight of the ham and pineapples, “I will kill you.”

“Yikes, you need to relax,” Hina says, taking a big bite and sliding it back onto her paper plate next to her feet, kicked up on the coffee table. “You’re just being offensive.”

“Offensive?” Celeste repeats disbelievingly. “What did I say that’s counted as offensive?”

“Your reaction’s offensive because of the pineapples.”

Celeste scrunches her nose cutely, and Hina sweeps her fingers mindlessly through her friend’s hair. The movie’s ceasing to entertain her, though not much ever competes with someone as unpredictable as Celeste, anyway. “They’re disgusting.”

“Now that's just discriminatory.”

“Wow.”

Hina finally tears her eyes away from the screen, unable to contain her laughter at the mock offense seeding Celeste’s tone. “I’m kidding,” she says, with a giggle. “You’re fine.”

“Oh, that’s much better.” Celeste reaches out, tugs playfully on a curl, tucks it behind Hina’s ear. “I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, and all I get is _fine_.”

“I—what? Shut up,” Hina says, her cheeks pooling with hot embarrassment. Her lips burn pink, irises like pools when the sun is overhead. “You don’t really think that.”

“Mhm, I do,” Celeste teases, or means to and misses entirely; the words come too naturally soft for someone like her, not as a whisper but with the intent of one. Hina pauses, stares down at her, and Celeste vaguely comprehends the palm of Hina’s hand settling over the back of hers. Summer heat sinks through her skin and Hina wonders if Celeste’s mouth carries the same weight. Her tongue briefly slips between her lips, wets them, nervous and uncertain.

“You’re the pretty one,” Hina murmurs, brushing the knuckles of her free hand against the gambler’s cheek, and her blood rushing through her veins scrapes as if suddenly raw. “You always have been.”

“Just shut up,” Celeste says, maybe shocked to hear herself breathless, “and take the damn compliment.”

In the background, there’s the sound of a slashing knife and tearing flesh, and someone’s heart ends up scattered across the floor. Hina thinks it's hers.


	17. kirihina - love is the sky and i am for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: kirihina + post-canon + proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two prompts today. 'post-canon' is a really vague way of stretching it. but mostly it refers to post-future foundation. whether it's years later is up to you. also, i finally tweaked the summary and the chapter titles for easier navigation! i've been meaning to do that for a while, but brain kept saying 'hold it off' until i finally didn't.

“Wait, how did she propose?” Makoto asks, twirling a pen in between his fingers.

“Actually,” Aoi says with a sly grin, “ _I_ proposed.”

“Oh,” Makoto blinks, then smiles. “Tell me?”

She laughs. “Sure!”

* * *

The morning is quiet and normal, or as much as the definition of the word ‘normal’ can be stretched; that’s the first step.

She wakes up to the sound of the coffee maker ringing and finds Kyoko sitting at their kitchen table with a pencil, casually scratching through the first recently dated newspaper Japan’s seen in years following The Tragedy. Her mug rests half-empty beside her, dark rings staining the inside like age lines of a tree. Aoi pads to the stove, and Kyoko throws her a small smile, her eyes bright as Aoi reaches for a mug of her own.

“So what’s the news for this morning?” Aoi asks, voice scratchy with sleep, adjusts her shorts to fit more snugly around her waist.

“I have no idea,” Kyoko says blithely, face stoic despite the mirth. “I’m doing the crossword puzzle.”

Aoi laughs, adding (obscene, she remembers Byakuya saying) amounts of sugar and cream to her coffee. “Huh, I’d think you would want to through the headlines first,” she poses rhetorically, turning around and leaning against the counter, one ankle kicked over the other. Kyoko’s smile spreads knowingly.

“For once,” she says. “I don’t feel like it today, and the puzzle itself is interesting. It’s a great way to start a morning.”

There’s too much tension and adoration settling throughout the room, maybe that’s the second step; the way the sun drips through the curtains, burns itself white-hot and bruising just to be admired, and it doesn’t even compare to the girl sitting at the table, her thoughts held thoughtfully between her teeth, her stare focused; the way Aoi’s blood runs warm like it’s underneath someone else’s skin, and her heart beating steadily without the threat of bloodshed and death.

Aoi moves behind her, presses her lips to the top of Kyoko’s head. “You’re a great way to start the mornings.”

Oh, well, they can’t keep up appearances for long. Kyoko tilts her head back, thoughtful. “Can you not manage my mouth? Is my morning breath really that bad? I made sure to brush my teeth earlier.”

Aoi laughs, sets her mug on the table, and leans over, kisses her half upside-down and awkward, Kyoko smiling against her the whole time. Aoi pulls away, giggling. “Nope, I think you’re fine,” she says, too fond for offense. Kyoko gently pats the chair next to her and Aoi sits, leaning her elbow on the table, chin against the back of her hand.

“Not according to this crossword puzzle,” Kyoko says, gesturing back to the paper, pencil still held loosely in her hand. “Descending order, nine, four character word starting with _ke_ , ending with _ru_. Clue: a ceremony.”

_Marry_ , the word comes to Aoi’s mind instantly, just as she’s sure it comes to Kyoko’s, but Kyoko is still carrying that flippant air about her, tone of proving points. Aoi’s suddenly far, far ahead, somewhere ten years down the line with a ring on her finger and a dog snuggled between them in bed, they’re arguing about the color of the walls but they manage to agree on the plants at the balcony and the lights around the vanity, they meet everyone else for family dinners once a week, they are running together in the fields and there is the sound of laughter—

“Marry me,” is what Aoi says instead of the sole answer, her hand falling away from her chin. She says it breathlessly, wound up in fantasies and lifetimes and forever.

Kyoko looks at her, light expression fading from her face into something subtly confused, disbelieving. “What?” She asks, the slightest widening of her eyes.

“Marry me,” Aoi repeats, taking Kyoko’s hands in her own, and all at once she comprehends the desperation of it; she needs Kyoko, needs to spend the rest of her life curled up in her arms, needs to watch her smile and know that it is safe and living and well. “I don’t have a ring yet, and I don’t—I don’t have a speech prepared, but—you’re here. This place—this life we live is dangerous and unpredictable but,” she fights the wavering tone, fights the breaking of it. “I want the rest of it with you—the rest of this life and whatever comes next. Marry me.”

“I—what?” Kyoko breathes out, her eyes wide and glistening, tears filling them and threatening to drop. She just stares, her lips parted in awe, her body held as if waiting for the joke to crack, the catch to come, cruel and tired.

“Was that not okay?” Aoi asks, lips quirking nervously. “I’m no good with words sometimes. But I can do better.”

The memory of the sentiment alone seems to snap Kyoko out of whatever daze she’s lost in, tears finally falling over her cheeks, down her chin. “What?” She says again, her throat tight and closing around her words. “You really—you want to marry me?”

“I’m sure. More than anything,” Aoi nods rapidly, cups her cheeks in her hands, brushes her thumbs through the tears rolling down her face. “I love you. Marry me.”

“Okay,” Kyoko says, and she draws Aoi’s mouth to hers, but her lips are a cross between laughing and crying and she winds up burying her head in the crook of Aoi’s neck instead, the joy finally winning. “I—I always—” She says, her wide smile apparent in her voice. “I always thought it had to be me. I thought it’d be me to do it.”

“Do what?” Aoi asks, trying to blink back her own tears; it’s too contagious, there’s too much to love in her arms; Kyoko pulls back, wipes at her eyes with an embarrassed cough, and stands up.

“Please wait here,” she says quietly, and she races into their bedroom, returning with a small velvet box in her hands. Her expression is full of things she once thought she’d never feel again. She opens it, reveals rubies surrounding an amethyst on a silver band, and Aoi loses her own battle, laughs into her hands and cries.

There’s relief, there’s belonging, and fleetingly, there’s a sense of rightness to the world; time doesn’t freeze, it ceases to exist entirely. The walls melt down into ash, the ceiling collapsing in on them, books leaping from their shelves. Photographs fling off their hooks and shatter their glass. Outside, the trees shed their bark and turn to dust; their shadows are moonbeams. The sky breathes easy and is no longer laced in the red twilight. Their ghosts are here, but they live with them rather than haunt them, not anymore.

(That’s the last step, Aoi thinks. She closes her eyes and doesn’t think about time or space or the Earth falling through the sky. She thinks about the weight of first ever cherry blossom petals recorded in years and how they’re alive. She finally thinks of peace.)


	18. tokomaru - skewed by storms and seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: tokomaru + coffee shop au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apart from 'the anatomy of breaking down', i've never actually written anything tokomaru-centric before. 
> 
> this prompt, i remember vaguely, was finished around... last month? yeah. i'm pushing this up the queue to rectify the lack of tokomaru posting. i love them.

There’s no particular reason why she picks this cafe. It’s a block or two from her flat. The weather looks really, really fucking ominous. Toko doesn’t want to risk it.

(In the years to come, Komaru will ask for one, and she’ll make them up: the canopy was really green that day, she’ll say, and it reminded her of some novel she read once. She followed the smell of pastries; she got curious. She saw her through the window and had to come inside. Just because it was a Sunday.

None of these are true, but they’re nice stories anyway, and all of them make Komaru smile, so it’s fine.)

It’s a Wednesday. The bell chimes when she walks in. It’s decent enough, with tables lined against the walls, and an array of bar stools tucked below the counter. There’s only one other customer inside, sitting near the back, chatting pleasantly with a woman in a white dress shirt, some pants and an apron—Toko assumes she’s the waitress. She finds a seat near the window and watches as the rain begins to pour, bouncing off the pavement, pattering against the glass.

“Just in time,” a voice says to her left. Toko starts, skittish and annoyed, turning to the person next to her. The stranger laughs. “Whoops. Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you or anything.”

She looks at her. Her hair is green, short. Her eyes are almost the same color, a tad lighter; the apron she’s clad in carries a pattern of small flowers. She’s short, too; Toko gets the impression she’d barely reach the top part of one of the shelves over the far wall—she snickers at the image privately.

“W-whatever,” she replies, attempting to remember how to be social. “I’m just a bit jumpy, is all. It’s probably the rain.”

The woman puts a hand on her hip. “Rain makes you jumpy?” She says dubiously, blinking. “You must have a hard time living around here during the rainy season then.”

She almost laughs. Funny. “I guess,” she tells her stiffly. “Just haven’t b-been out in a while.”

The woman seems to forget she’s supposed to be taking her order. She’s intriguing (annoying) her. She has that effect on people. And it’s really irritating. “Oh?” She says, tilting her head. “Eh—I get that! I sometimes lose myself in some mangas for hours, I think I lose track of time and the next thing you know I totally need to take a walk outside or something.”

“M-mine’s different,” Toko grumbles, not bothering to bring up her hate for the aforementioned piece of media lest she earns this stranger’s ire and waste more time, “but whatever floats your boat.”

“That sounds really vague,” she says cheerfully, “but still cool. I’ve only been coming here to earn money but the rest of the time I’m in my room and like—I don’t know. A summer ago, had to come out because of the heat wave.”

She does laugh, this time. The sound is foreign to her own ears; free and genuine. It’s not something she’s used to. She doesn’t answer her out of surprise, but the stranger plows on.

“So why’d you come out, then?” She asks, leaning against the table like they’re old friends.

Her lips fade into a thoughtful line, desolate and small. “None of your business.”

She observes her curiously for a moment, biting her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Heh—my bad, it’s okay!” She says with a smile, like she understands. And then: “I don’t have lots of friends, so like, there’s not much reason for me to go outside either unless it involves them in some way.”

She’s stunned into silence by her openness. People don’t shock her like this often. “Erm, I hadn’t even s-said anything like that—you don’t have—”

“Nope,” she interrupts, tapping her finger on the table. “You’re not the only one who’s allowed to be vague.”

Toko scoffs to herself, but can’t fight away the smile growing at her lips. She begrudgingly likes the ease at which this person gets her to express herself in a way, though she’s only known her for minutes. “Fair e-enough.”

The bell chimes, and two people enter the cafe. The woman glances at them, nodding politely, and subtly winks at her. Toko looks away, cheeks burning. “What can I get you?” She asks.

“Komaru-chan, stop pretending like you’re doing your job,” one of them, clad in a red jacket, says, poking fun at her. “We know you’re chatting up the customers again.”

She spins around. “Hey! Shove off,” she calls, and they laugh. “Like the reason you two keep coming back here isn’t because of me, right?”

“Maybe, but the coffee is nice too,” the other says quietly. She chuckles, and turns back to her.

Komaru. She’s… okay. “Milk tea, if you have it. Black c-coffee is fine.”

She salutes her with two fingers, and moves away toward the other table.

“Listen, Asahina-senpai, it’s called being friendly—” She starts, walking over.

She doesn’t even bother looking away. She’s… intriguing, Toko thinks, watching her, and it’s not a bad thing. She unzips her bag, reaching for her laptop. She’s suddenly inspired, but doesn’t want to look into _why_ any further.

She returns about five minutes later after making a round, setting Toko’s order in front of her. She’s typing quickly, fingers flashing across the keys.

“Whoa,” she says, impressed. “You’re fast. I start typing in four sentences for an essay and my brain starts shutting down.”

“H-heh, what? Do you need me to help you or s-something?” Toko asks, though doesn’t look away from the screen. “Leave me alone. Can’t y-you see I’m busy?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Whoa there,” she grins, sheepish. “I think I got it. But I’m _sure_ you could.”

Her implications take a moment to catch up with her. Her face burns so badly that she’s afraid it might melt off. “That’s not what I—” she begins, and backtracks, stuttering and agitated. “I wasn’t attempting to imply that I could—I mean, I didn’t—not that you’re not—I just meant—you little—”

She’s laughing again. “Stop, stop, I’m sorry!” She giggles, waving a hand. “I was only joking. You’re really nice. I see that now.”

“Are y-you just trying to comfort me by l-lying? I swear…” She mumbles hotly, still embarrassed. Komaru adopts her previous position of leaning against the table, smiling. She has a nice smile. Toko can’t even pretend she doesn’t see it.

“No, I’m not! Honest,” she shakes her head frantically. “So, are you like, a writer? I can guess from the notes and stuff. That’s so cool.” She’s fascinated by every curl of her mouth, every inflection in her voice, every crease on her forehead--her laugh sounds rusty, unpracticed. She notices more than she lets on. This woman wonders about the things that could’ve happened to a person to make them forget their own laugh.

Toko appears thoughtful, scrunching her noise. “Huh? Am I?”

Komaru scratches her cheek. “Nah. I think ‘fun’ is a better word.”

The bell dings again. Three more people pile inside, all greeting her by name.

Toko smirks. “D-do I entertain you or something? That says a lot of h-how are boring it is around here, then.”

There’s a glint in her eye. “I mean, they were,” she says, “until you showed up.”

Komaru stands up straight, cracking her back. Toko grumbles to herself, shaking her head, but her lips betray her; the lines of her mouth are soft. Komaru’s smiling at her. She casts her one last look before heading to the other customers.

“It’s nice to have a new friend,” she calls over her shoulder, and Toko doesn’t even bother biting back.


	19. celeshina - take me to church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celeshina + fantasy au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one prompt today. this one may seem inconclusive, but that's what i was going for. you can just build the rest of the world in your head instead.

They tell her she was to be a hero. She draws close to the pulpit, the pastor of the cathedral leaning down, placing his heavy hand on her shoulder gently. He whispers of the coming of a paragon in her eyes—blue, whisper that she was a sign, that she was to be a hero.

“You are destined for greatness.” The pastor says to her as the nuns begin to usher her away, his eyes narrowed in thinly veiled interest. “This has long been foretold.” His eyes (dark, empty, bone-chilling to a tiny four year old still struggling with the fact that there was something else inside of her) flicker to her again for a moment, before looking away and turning back. “And it will come to you—whether you like it or not.”

“Ignore the father’s ramblings,” one of the nuns pause when Hina looks up at them. A sigh escapes their lips, and they kneel down. “For now, it is needless.”

But she can already feel it, that deep apprehension in her too young and too fragile bones—into her too tender heart—can already feel something pulling her at her chest, away from the church and the nuns and into the woods at the edge of town that separate it all. The sun casts fire to her brown hair, wind blowing it out of the weak ponytail she had tried to do that morning—the one she didn’t have the heart to complete—and for a moment she thinks that she hears another little girl’s laughter in the breeze, whispering by the shell of her ears and making her cheeks flush dark.

The nuns take her back home, and the overseer of the orphanage reads the children poetry for a bedtime story—but throughout it all she can still hear it, that little girl's bitter laughter ringing in her ears even as she finally lays her head against the fabric of her cot and succumbs to sleep.

* * *

The first time Hina follows the pull in her chest she is eighteen, grown and curious. It takes her to the forest, deep and dark and according to the rumors: dangerous. The summer is relentless and sets everything alight, the lush green a stark contrast against the mirror of the sun over ground. That’s where she finds her, the girl—clad in black, ornaments and designs as red as the flush in her cheeks littering the dress in specific patterns. Hina sees her hair, as dark as the shadows that surround her, and stops in her tracks, staring—and she meets oddly familiar eyes, though they are as red as blood and twice as pretty.

She’s pretty.

She’s a pretty girl in a forest. Her eyes striking and her chin sharp, pale freckles across the bridge of a strong nose, pointed ears and an almost delicate set of lips. It awakens something deep inside Hina’s soul, and she yearns like she’s never done before—and it hits her then; how she’s never quite yearned for something like this before.

“So you have come.” The stranger says with a click of her tongue, nose wrinkled in disgust. She crosses her arms, glowering fiercely at Hina with an almost surprising strength. “Have you arrived to finally put an end to my life, chosen one?”

“Wha—? Huh?” Hina blinks, voice far too sharp and far too loud in the open air of the silent forest. Her heart thuds rapidly in her chest, pounding and pounding and pounding until she is absolutely sure that the girl in front of her must be able to hear. “I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

The stranger scoffs, crossing her arms, and it occurs to Hina that she must be around the same age as her. “Your foolishness is an act and you cannot deceive me. I can never trust someone like you.” Her eyes seem to glow— _(red as blood and twice as pretty)_ —and she turns away. The girl moves deeper into the forest, and Hina stumbles, can’t help herself. “Do not come back here.”

“Hey! Wait a second!” She calls, surging and surging and surging forward. She’s always been fast, always been good at being strong and fast. But for some reason, her ability seems to fail her, just this once, and finds that the pretty girl in the forest is nowhere to be seen. She follows the footsteps, fickle things engraved in the earth, but the imprints stop abruptly, and it is as though she had submerged into the darkness around her.

It’s only after she starts the trek home that Hina realizes that the pull in her chest hadn’t bothered her in the presence of the stranger with red eyes.

* * *

(She will see her again, although she does not know it just yet.)

* * *

“So you’ve returned.” A voice says from behind her, sounding annoyed.

“Oh, um,” Hina turns around, blinking wide eyes at the stranger. It had been a very long time since she’d last seen her, a good year or two maybe, and she had convinced herself that she had made up the encounters with her or everything that happened that afternoon was just some strange fever dream. She was glad to be proven wrong. “Huh, yeah. I guess I am.”

“You’re a pest.” The stranger says, the pretty girl in the forest, though Hina doesn’t think it’s fair or right to call her a ‘girl’ anymore; especially when it was so clear that like Hina, she had been growing older. The sight of her now, so obviously past the cusp of adulthood, steals the air from Hina’s lungs; an unfamiliar sensation tugs at her chest.

“Didn’t I tell you to never return?” The stranger sneers at her, a look so scorching that for a moment Hina forgets that the reason she’s sweating was because of the summer heat.

“I mean, I don’t think I could’ve remembered if you did tell me… That was like, years ago.” Hina mutters, sheepishly scratching the back of her head. She was standing under the tree where they first met, and she had been doing some good old sightseeing there for a while. She hadn’t even known why, but she had walked into the forest until every ounce of her being had screamed at her to stop.

And so she did.

“Your memory is unfathomably horrendous.” The stranger remarks snidely, crossing her arms.

“Cool, thanks a lot. What are you, some sort of aristocrat too?” Hina can’t help but scoff, rolling her eyes and trying to ignore the strange blush on her cheeks. She was older than she had been before, she wouldn’t let this strangely pretty person walk all over her like she did in the past. “You sound like those stuffy nobles. They all suck. Try this one—”

“I don’t need to learn about human slang. Especially from the likes of you.” The stranger interrupts with a frown, looking so adorably confused that for a second Hina can’t help but let out a snicker.

“Eh, maybe you do. You talk like those guys and that’s—yuck. You know?” She exclaims cheerfully, completely forgetting that she had decided to be tough and assertive. “You need to be more friendlier. Like we’re friends.”

“We are not friends.” The stranger says slowly.

“Jeez okay, what are we then?” Hina asks, tilting her head, furrowing her brows as she tries to think of something to say. “Acquaintances, or whatever?” She asks hopefully.

“No.” The stranger recoils. “I barely know you to consider you an acquaintance.”

“Well, whose fault do you think is that?” Hina pouts. “I never had a lots of friends growing up because the people around me act weird. Oh—wait! We can do all sorts of things together, like weave some clothes, or read books from the grand archives, or—”

“Child, your voice is grating. Cease your rambling if you have nothing useful to say.”

“Huh—what?” Hina shouts incredulously, stepping forward and crossing her arms around her chest. “You could hardly call me that when you look like the same age as me!”

“The age I’m referring to is psychological and far beyond your understanding.” The stranger scoffs, taking a step backward, making Hina feel irrationally guilty.

“God—sorry. You’re so confusing.” Hina says while scratching at her cheek, meeting the chilly gaze of the woman in front of her. Her eyes seem to glitter, sparkling as prettily as when the sun’s rays meet the ground. The woman grimaces, suddenly becoming uncomfortable and hunching in on herself.

“How many seasons have passed since your birth?” The stranger asks suddenly, scooting forward to look at Hina with a critical and thoughtful eye.

“…I’m twenty?” She says after a moment, a soft mumble in time with the rise and fall of her shoulders. Even though Hina feels the urge to back away, she feels a much greater desire to stay right where she is. She decides it’s because this stranger was just really pretty and doesn’t think about it again.

“I see.” The woman turns away, pressing a hand to her chin and pursing her lips in thought.

“Are we, like, talking about the same conversation here?” Hina asks her cluelessly. What did this woman see that she couldn’t? “Is there something on my face?” Her hands immediately go for her arms and hips, brushing off invisible dirt and whatever the incredibly pretty stranger might have noticed.

“You need to leave.” The stranger says after a moment, taking another step away from Hina. She’s frowning, as though her presence bothers her, more than it obviously already has.

“I could.” Hina shifts, a smile playing on her lips. “But there isn’t any rule around here or something that tells me I shouldn’t be staying here.”

“Ugh, like I said—you are such a pest.” The woman says, as though her words made everything clear and she was disappointed in her for not being able to obey.

“And you’re such a hardass.” Hina grumbles, feeling too warm suddenly, and tries to ignore the way that a flicker of a smirk makes its way across the woman’s face.

“Why are you still here? I would’ve thought those damned priests had told you of your duty by now.” She scoffs, jutting out a hip and leaning forward, and with those heels on, it feels a lot like the stranger was looking down on her. “Unless you are here to kill me, of course.”

“Look, I still have no idea what you’re talking about. I got nothing.” She replies, tilting her head. Hina isn’t exactly annoyed or angry, but she was starting to feel really, really dumb with all this church and ‘chosen one’ gibberish.

The woman watches her for a moment, her sharp eyes scrutinizing her with such intensity that Hina can’t help the blood rising to her cheeks. The stranger finally looks away, sighing, and Hina takes the second of reprieve to catch her breath. “That is becoming more and more apparent, it seems.”

“Jeez, it sounds like you really don’t want me here.” Hina says with a laugh, scratching the back of her head nervously.

“I don’t.” The woman says instantly, meets her eyes with a probing stare. “You...” Her cheeks color, and she shakes her head—black bangs falling over her eyes. “You would do well not coming back here.” The voice she uses is softer and gentler than the last times she has heard it, though Hina can’t help but feel that it isn’t sincere. “When summer arrives again, you are to never return.”

“Okay. Sure.” Hina says with a grin, lying very badly.

“I’m serious.” The woman says, narrowing her eyes. “Do not come back here.”

“Yeah, I totally won’t come back. Ever.” She nods seriously before pausing, expression guilty. “I’m lying. Sorry.”

“Ugh.” The woman glares down at her.

The look of scorn on her face is almost enough to make Hina vow never to return, but something inside of her glues her lips shut. She _can’t_ not come back, the _something—_ the pull—in her chest wouldn’t allow it. She’d be led here again and again and again and again, and it felt as though there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Hina says, her lips trembling. “For real.”

“Please don’t make that face.” The stranger turns away, her face screwing up in an expression of discomfort Hina hasn’t seen before that she is almost surprised. The woman opens her mouth again, as though to say something more, but then decides against it, nodding at her stiffly and then retreats into the trees.

Hina runs after her, and just like the time before, she disappears into the shadows, never to be seen again.


	20. celeskirihina - lead me to where the stars align

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celeskirihina + hope’s peak academy au + dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two prompts today. haven't updated in a while--but it hasn't been a week so i don't consider that really long.
> 
> anyway... um. these three again. it's obvious i have favorites at this point lol

“This is their solution to a burnout?” Celes whispers to her harshly. The volume of the music playing makes it necessary to press close, or at least, makes it easy to do so without drawing attention; the distinction doesn’t matter much to her, right then.

Asahina laughs. “Yeah, I guess. You don’t want to?”

“Not really,” Celes quips dryly. She has to move away a little to mitigate the impact from Asahina’s impeding shove. “That depends. But for now, you’re fortunate that I don’t have the mind to object.”

“Celes-san.” (Kirigiri, from behind her, says her name like it’s the sound she makes on every exhale.) “You don’t need to come along if you don’t feel like it.”

Her heartbeat stumbles over itself, thudding twice and then skipping. For a moment, everything burns a bit too bright. Asahina sees it and smiles. She reaches out to Celes’ hand and squeezes it, then steps away, if only just.

Kirigiri hums. ”How about drinks first?”

Celes is torn between stepping closer and walking outside to breathe, but somewhere in the middle seems like enough, just for now.

“Sounds perfect.”

The club they had found is, naturally, far from what she used to, but interesting still, just how she liked it: dark and full of the sort of people that made life unpredictable. (On the way here, Asahina had mumbled to her jokingly, voice low in Celes’ ear, that Kirigiri’s predilection to investigate everything and anything she gets her hands on had been a great help in their search; every club she had knowledge of, they’d immediately discounted.) Best of all, it’s clearly full of friendly people (cheers to women, Asahina whooped); they drew little attention, which was helpful, given that she probably wouldn’t hold herself well in a fight, should she find herself alone.

Another benefit that Celes finds unsurprising: the bartender serves them without question. Truthfully, their service comes a bit too quickly for her taste; there are many patrons waiting for drinks, but one look at the three of them and they ignore the lot. Not that Celes can blame them, exactly. Privately and objectively, her two friends were an attractive pair. But then Asahina turns and hands Celes an iced tea without a second glance at the one behind the bar, and something in her settles back down again.

Kirigiri presses the lip of her glass to theirs. The sound gets lost in everything else, but the sensation vibrates along Celes’ fingertips. A shiver passes down her spine shortly after, but she suspects that has more to do with the way they were watching her as she raises the drink to her mouth.

“What? Should I wait? Are we toasting?”

“Mhm… I think we are.” Kirigiri’s hand finds the small of Celes’ back as they slip through the crowd, back towards the dance floor.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re toasting for then?”

“Mhm… probably not.”

She swats at Kirigiri’s shoulder; Kirigiri allows it to connect rather than risk a swerve into a stranger, moving closer if anything else.

“Eh,” Asahina waves a hand casually, “we just figured you knew.”

Celes smiles and, yes, yes she knows.

“To us, then.”

Apparently, Kirigiri hadn’t expected her to actually say it, and the surprise shows on her face. Asahina notices it first and giggles. Before Celes can panic however, the surprise shifts back into a soft smile that has the exact opposite effect. Warmth spreads from the pit of her stomach and into her chest and Celes is pretty sure she’s grinning back like an idiot, but she doesn’t care in the slightest.

“To us,” Asahina agrees, then, smile turning lopsided, nods towards the dance floor. “And those guys, probably.”

She’d been so wrapped in Asahina and Kirigiri that she hadn’t noticed, but they’re easy to spot once she looks. There’s never been a group more out of touch with the club vibe, she’s pretty sure, but it seems to be working for them nevertheless, given the fact that a few others have joined Kuwata and Oowada in some kind of frantic headbang/flailing combination and a circle has formed around Togami and Naegi as they clumsily waltz around, like a couple out of time. Ishimaru has his work cut out for him.

Kirigiri blinks, an amused twinkle in her eye. “Naegi-kun was very dead set on this sort of thing.”

“By ‘this sort of thing’ do you mean putting together a totally awesome night that specifically involves dancing?” Asahina giggles, watching Oogami sway around with their other classmates. “Because that would mean you admitting that you’re basically having a great time—and _I_ managed to drag you guys in here. Recluses.”

Kirigiri snorts softly, then takes a sip of her drink to give herself time to hide her smile.

“Asahina-san,” she begins without expression. “I am, in fact, having an incredible time right now. This is now the highlight of my young life. I would not be the person I am in the future without this incredibly formative experience.”

“Yeah, okay. That felt _soooo_ sincere in literally every possible way, but…” Asahina grins, wrapping an arm around her and Kirigiri’s shoulders, pulling them in close. “You’re so welcome, Kyoko-chan!”

The blush on Celes' face spreads quickly, visibly; she has a feeling the dark doesn’t stop them from noticing. But maybe that’s not a terrible thing, letting them notice a little bit more.

She swallows and shifts her head to look at them more fully, throat tight with the things she wants to say. “Actually, you two. I want to thank you for accompanying me, really.”

“Huh? You don’t have to thank us.” Asahina shakes her head, though not with enough force to dislodge her gaze from Celes. “Not even a little.”

“I thought… it was a good step towards being honest?” she asks, a slightly self-mocking smile in place.

Asahina laughs, squeezing her shoulder, the warmth stays more than briefly.

“Okay, fine. But we’re aiming for like, ‘I should be thanking you for your friendship’—or something like that.”

“I thought we already established that a complete and utter lack of modesty was your thing.”

“I—hey!”

Kirigiri hums. “It could be ours.”

Celes raises an eyebrow, turning towards Kirigiri. “I… don’t even know what that means.”

“Me either. But it sounds nice, doesn’t it?” She smiles, knocks back the rest of her drink, and leans back, wipes at the mess moderately.

It’s… really distracting.

And it’s only then that Celes realizes she’s already finished her drink.

“I think we should dance like—right now,” Asahina smiles, bouncing on the balls of her feet excitedly.

“I…” Kirigiri rasps awkwardly. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Well then.” Celes drawls, feeling bold, plucking the empty glass from Kirigiri’s hand and setting it (and hers) on the table behind her. “We got all the time in the world for a dance lesson now, don’t you think?”


	21. kirihina - i know you better than the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: kirihina + canon compliant, post future foundation + ‘here, come in close, wear me out and stay’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my backlog is really low on fics now, so if you have something you want to see me write you can probably make a request...? as long as it's within reason, i'll (probably) do something about it. i only write when i get breaks, so i'm not really setting anything in stone.

Kyoko expects herself to be alone when she wakes up, as if even death can’t convince a haunting to find another home.

Except, well _actually_ , being alive isn’t even close to what surprises her—it’s apparently evening, based on the murmuring she hears from Hagakure’s voice about the position of the moon, the stars—and _alone_ is ever further away from reality.

They’re still in the building somewhere, that’s the first thing she realizes; she can feel the whirring of engines thrumming from outside the cracked windows, can hear the way the wind howls and whistles. The second thing she realizes is that someone’s holding her tightly in their arms, and that they must’ve been doing for a while.

She doesn’t need to open her eyes to know it’s Aoi; she can feel the material of her top underneath her cheek, the warmth of fabrics against each other, the way her arms enfold Kyoko like fog over an ocean. Aoi sighs to herself, mumbles incoherencies delicately against the collar of Kyoko’s shirt, and she feels her heart stutter and skip in response. Aoi suddenly pauses, tilts her chin; oh, Kyoko slowly comprehends. She heard that.

“Mhm, Kyoko-chan?” Aoi whispers softly, lifting a hand and stroking the hair away from her face. “Are you awake?”

“I… am?” Kyoko murmurs back, blinking her eyes open; the world looks dizzying and disorienting, her vision somewhat blurry. It’s hard to focus. It’s hard to make sense of anything at the moment, really. She turns her head, meets Aoi’s eyes, there’s also a few other figures right next to her that Kyoko finds difficult to pinpoint; so, it’s hard to make sense of anything that isn’t Aoi at all. “…I’m alive?”

“Yeah,” Aoi only says, clearly not choosing to elaborate just yet, then slowly unwinds her arms as Kyoko tries to shift herself into more of a sitting position. They’re in what’s left of the clinic with a blanket underneath them, and Aoi’s leaning against the wall for support. “You’re… good.” She swallows, and the painful sting of the act seems to be the thing to finally bring tears to her eyes. “You really scared us, you know? Tsumiki-chan was probably going to have a coronary figuring out how to revive you.”

“Oh,” Kyoko breathes out, recognizing the release of hours, weeks, years’ worth of pent-up emotion; she rests her hands on Aoi’s cheeks, thumbs stroking away any drops spilling over. “Oh, um, don’t cry—it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I know,” she says, but her bottom lip trembles anyway, and Kyoko does the only thing she can think to do, mirroring the impulse she’d had in one of her dreams long ago. She catches Aoi’s shaking lip between her own, kisses her so softly it eases Aoi back into a sense of stability; she can’t break a kiss this gentle. Something about it would be a crime, far worse than anything anyone could charge them with.

It only occurs to her after that they’re lucky everyone left them alone; they must be up front and planning, or spread out, searching for their own solace in a place with no hiding places. Kyoko says, “…I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Aoi repeats, voice still unsteady, her hands cupping the back of Kyoko’s against her cheeks. “And don't apologize. I just—I can’t believe you’re back and it’s over. It’s—over.” She inhales, exhales, meets Kyoko’s gaze open and honestly. “I—I’m, no one thought we would get you back. And now.” She pauses, presses her lips together into a line, teeth biting down. “Now, it’s like—everything seems so fleeting, you know? I have—I have things I want to say that I spent all this time pushing away because I was afraid, but now…”

She stops there, holds poignantly. Kyoko’s eyes dart between hers, searching for a confirmation she already knows exists. “But now?” Kyoko prompts quietly, giving her an option.

Aoi takes it with only a minute hesitation, leaning forward and kissing Kyoko the way a small bird beats its wings; it’s her turn for initiation, and it’s delicate and tender, nothing taken for granted, not even an inch, not even a second. She pulls away, licks her lips, her eyes still shut.

“But now,” she murmurs, and up front, Hagakure excitedly gushes about a bright star burning its way through the sky. “There's you.”


	22. tokomaru - donned with my heart and the guide to decide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: tokomaru + flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one upload today. and--um, wow--no dialogue? anyway. tokomaru real.
> 
> extra notes: changed summaries again! putting 'latest' updates in the summary for, again, easier navigation. this is like the second time, and apologies for that lol. it's just that despite the possible unchecked mental illness i'm also a godawful perfectionist when prompted

She gives Komaru flowers on a Saturday.

This one in particular is a strange affair, filled with a peculiar kind of wonder that glimmers from her radiant smile; there’s also the frantic churning in Toko’s stomach that causes the fingers on her hand (the one not in possession of the flowers, instead, the one positioned behind her back) to twitch and flutter. Her fingers press an indent against her coat, and she attempts a smile at her hopefully, and privately thinks that the bouquet of flowers were not the prettiest things in front of her.

Toko hadn’t quite known what had possessed her to give Komaru flowers, but she’d walked past the shopping districts and seen them dancing in the windows and couldn’t help but take pause. They were a reminder, somehow. One she had no intention of exploring, at the moment. Maybe it was the way they called to her, beautiful and flourishing across the glass.

Perhaps that was the reason why she decided to have them, perhaps it was because they whispered quiet words of intimacy, so soft and subtle it was hardly there. Or perhaps it was simply their coloring; yellow tulips, bunched into a small, elegant bouquet.

She wasn’t the Ultimate Florist or well-versed in flower-speak beyond romance, didn’t hold a dictionary of their meanings or their messages or their so gently spoken words, but she’d seen those flowers and thought— _there she is_.

Komaru stares at her for a moment, struck silent.

I’m giving her flowers, Toko has to remind herself. She hates it. Probably.

(How odd would that be? For her to be struck in such a silent surprise that for once she cannot ramble her way out of this situation. It causes a curl of unrest to settle against Toko’s heart, and the desire to make sure that Komaru knows she is appreciated, in a way, is an overwhelming one that Toko had not been prepared to fight off at all. Not that she wanted to. If anything, while it would have taken her much more time to be comfortable with the concept, Syo would have warmly welcomed the fact that they were in love with _Naegi Komaru_ of all people, flair and gusto present.)

Komaru shifts on her feet nervously, hesitantly taking the flowers, holding them in her hands and bowing her head a little.

And she knows that the motion is so that Komaru can smell them, but the action sends a rush of something through Toko that makes her fingers tap against her leg just a little faster. As though Komaru meant to pay homage to a god, her head bows, soft and short tresses of green falling forward and cascading around her messily. The movement is one of thankfulness and something else—and Toko _wants_ suddenly, wants more than she thinks that she's ever done so before.

Komaru smiles.

(At that moment in time, she was sure that she wanted a little more than that.)

There was more to this little event. She can see it, the awkward, too big, silly grin that framed Komaru’s face; belonging exactly where it did, so at home on her lips. A rush of longing runs through her, the urge to press her hands to Komaru’s cheeks, to brush her thumbs along the lines of her mouth and run her fingers around the curve of her jaw.

There’s something satisfying about the look on her face, so obviously surprised by her gift, but happy nonetheless. It was an expression that she’s seen on Komaru very frequently, but to see it now—caused by her, by her flowers—it is something that she is sure she will never forget.

(With little resistance and a heavy, loaded minute of grumbling, Toko decides that this wasn’t the last time she would get Komaru flowers.)

* * *

She gives Komaru another set of tulips on a Monday.

There is a brief moment where she wonders if Komaru might’ve thought this was weird, or why she’s even giving her some in the first place. There is a longer moment where she wonders if this was alright, anyway. She’s a bit more thoughtful, this time, and though she is filled with a bizarre sort of hesitation, she finds that a little research never harmed anyone.

The yellow tulip is a flower filled with odd, but charming history. Once upon a time, they seemed to represent hopeless love; the bitterness that came with: _I’ll never have you and it pains me_ , type of emotion.

Luckily for her, she was able to find a definition that suited her far more than unrequited(?) attraction.

Just like before, Komaru takes them gleefully and cradles the tulips close to her chest. Again, she gently bows her head. It's just as much as a curious sight as it was then; the actions filled with so much emotion that for a moment Toko can't quite make sense of it at all. She finds that there is a more sheepish quality to these than before, as though she still hadn’t quite expected something like this from her.

Toko can feel herself rolling her eyes, but still returning her smile; unlike Komaru’s, is a great deal softer, a great deal more subdued. This act, gift-giving, this was her grand way to show her love. For now, there would be no great romantic gestures, no obviously longing looks, there would be no sense of loudness in her actions. Toko, for all of her work’s gravitas, in this moment will love silently, love in secret; so quiet and hidden away and so easily looked over, the objects of her affection caught in between the screams of devotion that surrounded them.

But Komaru is giggling, smiling at her, so there is less reason to be miserable.

She had meant to give the tulips as friendship flowers, but there is something about the way Komaru looked at her when she gives them away that makes her neglect to point that out.

* * *

The next time she finds herself with flowers in hand, it is two more types instead of one. She’s not quite sure what they are for anymore; what she’s pretty sure about though, is that giving flowers repeatedly with this strange weight in her stomach isn’t platonic in the slightest.

Tulips they still are, and though she’d been sorely tempted to go with something else this time (Komaru’s eyes, steel under a sunset) but she’d seen them and once more thought, I can see her, I am reminded of her when I look upon these flowers; so beautiful and vibrant as they are, soft and gentle.

She thinks that there is always a part of Komaru that will be dumbfounded when she surprises her, flowers in hand and a grin on her face. She doesn’t mind, because though she wished that Komaru had enough love in her life to be unsurprised by random acts of affection, (or, well, hers for that matter), the astonishment on her face when paired with her silly smile is a surprisingly charming sight to bear witness to.

Toko had been closer to her than before.

It's a warm thing, being near her. It flutters up in her ribcage, pressing butterfly kisses to her lungs as they stutter and shake, nerves dancing in her stomach and thunder rattling against her bones. Touch was such a foreign concept, but she finds that if it came from someone like Komaru, she wouldn’t mind. She wants to hold her hand, to press her cheek against hers as she holds her tight in her arms. (As she holds her back tighter in her own.)

Toko sighs her name out fondly after Komaru profusely thanks her, and somehow finds the courage to reach out and squeeze her hand (calloused, warm and firm). Toko herself is pleasantly surprised when Komaru squeezes back. She wants to tell her that she doesn’t have to thank her for something as simple and mediocre as this, she wants to tell her so much more, but she doesn’t.

(Also, Toko decides that she rather likes the look on Komaru’s face when she’s happy or flustered by her, and she also decides that she wouldn’t mind spending every moment trying to get her to do it all over again.)

Toko would have done and said all these things, but she doesn’t; because Fukawa Toko, for all her bark, loves silently, loves carefully and fearfully—some people just had a bit of trouble hearing her over the noise.

* * *

She doesn’t get another chance to give Komaru flowers, and instead finds herself on the receiving end of one.

Toko stares at her, blinking for a moment as she takes her in.

It reminded me of you. Komaru mumbles, eyes tilted to the floor, and the only thing Toko knows in that moment is that she loves her, undoubtedly.

Toko wonders for a moment if this was a similar sight to what she had done for her, so (nervously) presenting her with a bunch of flowers she thought reminded her of Komaru. But then she also decides that she was also so obviously skittish about it, and that she should really hurry up and make it a little easier for her before Komaru passes out from the nerves.

(There was also the mean part of her that wanted to see it happen. Hm, decisions and decisions.)

She decides to take the flower from her delicately, saddling up close and pressing her other hand lightly to Komaru’s shoulder, imploring her to look. She doesn’t at first, and Toko doesn’t push her—even though she kind of wants to. Instead, Toko sighs, keeping her hand to where it is as she lifts the roses to her nose to smell.

Toko would have said otherwise, but later that day, she finds that she can’t keep the smile from her face. Not after that.


	23. kirihina - wham, bam, thanks a lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: kirihina, background and implied relationships + post-canon + ‘my friends are dating and i'm not sure if it's in secret or if i'm the last to know’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one prompt today! and um. listen. i did not intend to post this one at all. this was a four month old mess i found in one of my folders and it kinda sucked. but i had the urge to proofread this today and it came out... thankfully coherent in a way. so here it is? it might seem unfinished (well to me!! bc perfectionist tendencies yk!!) and sorry about that.
> 
> anyway. i love the thh survivors and. and. my brain devolves into a monkey's every time i think about them

The first time Hagakure sees the two of them together, in a figurative sense, he’s not sure what to make of it.

They’re standing on the docks, and Asahina’s running around giddily, excited over the prospect of fresh air and the long-missed sight of the ocean. Kirigiri, as usual, is blending into the woodwork, staring out at the boats pulling into the harbor a few steps away from him. She’s actually distracted, staring at Asahina, who’s gushing over a family of seagulls; he can tell instantly—he can sort of see it, which means it’s obvious. He doesn’t really know how to explain it - but she has this look on her face that he’s positive is directed towards the aforementioned athlete, and what’s even more surprising is that she doesn’t seem like she’s hiding it either.

Wide smiles are a rarity on Kirigiri-chi, he thinks idly, but she had different ways of showing she’s happy or content. The crinkle around her eyes, dimples that show at a certain strain, a blow of air through her nose—which are all things she does frequently around Asahina, now that he thinks about it.

But they have a delivery to escort back to the foundation—on the clock—so he can’t exactly bring it up and chat, but he does give her a dramatic pat on the shoulder as he walks by, and he can practically _hear_ the confused, muted sound that comes from the back of Kirigiri’s throat as he does.

Mission accomplished. Or, at least, it is, in his own right. He won’t forget about this, if he does manage to get his schedules aligned with everyone again.

* * *

As luck would have it, he does get time again, although luck may not be the right word—because it’s not exactly Kirigiri who he gets time with. It’s late at night the same day, and he’s running around passing overdue paperwork when he finds Asahina standing in the lobby, looking thoughtful. She’s pouting, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and there’s also the smudge of what seems to be lipstick near her mouth. He grins.

“Hina-chi,” he says, getting her attention.

She turns slowly, wiping the smudge away. “Oh,” she begins, startled, “Hagakure-kun?”

“What’s up?” He asks airily. “Looking down in the dumps over there.”

First things first. He’ll to try to cheer her up as fast as he can, or at least distract her; he can make pep talks on the fly, even if they diverge from the original points somewhat, but comforting and navigating through messy emotions was a Naegi thing. Her lips twitch up slightly. “Huh? Well, not exactly,” she replies, not pulling any punches.

“Then what’s wrong?”

She shrugs.

“What is it?” He asks, getting it out of the way. “Togami-chi again?”

“Kind of,” she snorts, sizing him up and rolling her eyes. “I’m not actually mad or anything—it just gets really mind-numbing when you’re in meetings with him and Kyoko-chan. It’s hard to keep up with those two, you get me?”

“Huh,” he says. “Oh yeah, I totally get what you mean.”

She grins. “Thanks for asking though,” she replies, and after a moment of deliberation, walks over to one of the couches and takes a seat. She motions for him to do the same with a wave and a sunny smile. “I’m actually good now. Just had a pick-me-up.”

“Pick-me-up?” he questions, plopping down beside her and leaning back on his hands.

She admits vaguely, “Yep.”

“Oh, cool, I guess,” Hagakure says. He doesn’t really know about keeping that kind of secret—he totally saw that smudge! He knows he can be silly sometimes, but he has _glasses_ on; he’s pretty sure his eyes are still functional enough to get an idea of what happened!

He can also tell she’s waiting to see if he’s actually interested in talking to her, so he continues, “What, you just jetlagged, or something?”

“Heh—yeah, I had no idea what they were talking about other than shipment schedules and arguing about the ratio of some construction materials—but I think I’ve run out of brain juice by just sitting in there,” Asahina explains. “I think it just isn’t my thing. I’d rather be out in the field.”

“Why were you even with them?” He asks offhandedly, glancing over at her; she’s humming a tune and tapping on her shorts. “Pretty sure the last place you’ll volunteer to be in is an official’s meeting.”

Asahina giggles, “You’re right.” She says carefully, clearly debating over how much she wants to divulge. Not much to reveal when you’ve got spoilers, Hagakure thinks funnily. She finally settles on, “Long story.”

_Long story_. Sounds fake. He can dig it though. They were probably keeping it under the radar because of work. “So, what about Togami-chi? I don’t think he would’ve even _tolerated_ you being in there.”

She raises her eyebrows like it had been a stupid question or something, but drops them a second later, answering, “Are you kidding? When I walked in through the doors right after Kyoko-chan I think he was having a _stroke_.”

He laughs out loud. “I would’ve _paid_ to see that!”

She laughs with him. “I’ll never let him live that down, I swear.”

She doesn’t seem very forthcoming about the lipstick thing, but he can infer enough to get why so. “At least Kirigiri-chi was around though,” he says nonchalantly. “It’s nice to have people around you to count on.”

She laughs louder, though he doesn’t think he’s said anything hilarious. "That's true.”

“I should go back,” Asahina says after a moment, looking over at him. “Things are waiting, you know.” More like _someone_ , but he can pretend he doesn’t know that.

“No problem,” Hagakure says, standing easily.

“Thanks for listening dude,” Asahina says, and gives him a sweet smile. “See each other around. Hopefully I’m not too stupid by then!”

“Yeah!” He exclaims. “See you later!”

She turns around a corner and he’s even more certain than he was before: there’s _definitely_ something going on here.

* * *

There was something going on. And he’s right.

“Hey, I still haven’t thanked you for yesterday,” a voice he recognizes instantly as Asahina’s says from somewhere behind him. Hagakure turns and sees her standing there, smiling, holding a tray full of food in her hands. “Mind if I sit here?”

“You’re already sitting down before I even said anything,” Hagakure replies wryly, trying to keep his enthusiasm somewhat in check; he doesn’t want to seem desperate or something. “And—you already did? Everyone does it for each other all the time.”

Asahina laughs, setting her tray down and sitting right next to him, cross-legged and comfortable despite the concrete of the rooftop. “Oh, I did? My bad. But you’re right.” She shrugs, and smiles gleefully as Kirigiri sits between them. “Kyoko-chan!”

“Hi,” the detective says quietly, halfway through peeling an orange. “Good afternoon, you two.” He was expecting her to single Asahina out—and even if that would’ve been a few times funnier this was kind of better, anyway.

“Yeah,” He answers nicely. “Where’s the others?”

Kirigiri shrugs. “Syo-san took Komaru-san out for lunch,” she pauses, “as for the other two, I feel like I’ve been third-wheeling them lately,” she finishes mildly. “They probably haven’t even noticed I’m not with them.”

Hagakure holds back a laugh. Beside him, he catches Asahina saying, “I can’t believe you managed to get me the fish fries,” and Kirigiri passes a box. “Usually I have to wrestle through the line to get one!”

“Mhm.”

Asahina smirks. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“Among other things, Asahina-san.”

“Hey—”

Kirigiri smiles at her, and Asahina sighs theatrically. There’s also a brief moment where Kirigiri’s hand twitches as if it was about to reach out to the woman beside her, but it’s so quick he can’t be sure if that’s really what he’d seen at all.

And, well, look, he’s not trying to like, eavesdrop or anything, but they’re sitting next to him and they’re really nice to listen to; it’s like Komaru-chi and Fukawa-chi, actually, he thinks idly. The ease of affection, the familiarity.

“You two spend a lot of time with each other, like, more than normal,” he points out casually.

Asahina glances over. “Too long, Hagakure-kun,” she says around a mouthful of sushi. “It’s been an _eternity_.”

“Not really.” Kirigiri doesn't even flinch as she corrects her, like the exaggeration is expected. “Just last winter.”

“Ah.” The answer surprises Hagakure; _winter_ , the way they navigate each other seemed deeper than a handful of months. Then again, they’ve known everyone their entire lives so there’s not much to speculate. It was bound to happen. An eventuality. It wasn’t a question of _if_ , it was a question of _when_.

He leans his chin on his hand as he casually observes them. “That was just an observation, though.”

Asahina starts to laugh; Kirigiri hums evenly.

“I guess,” Kirigiri answers vaguely, Asahina’s laughter dying in the background.

“And now it’s like, I know too much at this point, get it?” Asahina interjects seriously, her eyes wide. “See here, if I try to leave, I’m pretty sure my body won’t be found anywhere when she comes to finish me off.”

Kirigiri exhales loudly, restraining a smile. It’s clear she’s trying not to let on how funny she finds her. “It’s… reversed, actually. The longer you stick around, the likelihood of that happening goes higher.”

“Hey—what the heck?” Asahina exclaims dramatically, pointing her chopsticks in Kirigiri’s direction. “I scared off some guy to get you that orange—”

“I thought I was informed you were the first in line?”

“—And I get death threats in return? That’s harsh, Kyoko-chan.”

Kirigiri eyes her dubiously. “Did you really scare someone off?" She asks, an interesting cross of stern and disbelieving. "I wouldn't put it past you, but that still wouldn’t look good on your reputation should they tell.”

“Nah,” Asahina says easily, giggling. “I really was the first in line.”

Hagakure is starting to wonder if he’s way in over his head. It’s not like he was upset about it or anything, but it kind of sucked that they were hiding this from everyone else.

(Later, he’ll realize he was asking himself all the wrong questions, but for now, he’s content to listen to them bicker happily beside him.)

* * *

He’s walking back to his room the next day when he spots Asahina and Kirigiri on the hallway ahead of him; they’re huddled together, looking at a sheet of paper Asahina’s holding, and from a distance it looks like they’re debating heatedly, but—

“I _swear_ I’ll take you to a burger joint soon, but I’m not in the mood for Yakumi’s, Kyoko-chan!” Asahina’s saying, flicking her thumb up and down the page. Hagakure almost laughs. They’re talking about restaurants. Much of the world was still recovering, and that included the fast food industry, apparently. “What about that ramen house off of Main Street? It just opened last week and I took Toko-chan there with me last time! It’s really good.”

“I’m okay with it,” he hears Kirigiri agree. “Naegi-kun keeps bugging me to try something from the specials, actually.”

“Are you implying you _never_ had any from them? Oh my god, I’m paying—I have to take you there like, right now! This is an _emergency_.”

“What? No. I’ll pay—“

“Guys,” Hagakure says charmingly, interrupting; since he’s actually friends with them both, he feels more at ease approaching them. They both glance up, slightly surprised, but relax when they see it’s him. Asahina casually takes a small step back to let him in their space.

“Hagakure-kun,” Kirigiri greets.

“What’s up Hagakure-kun?” Asahina asks sunnily, scratching the back of her head. “Get into any trouble lately?”

He huffs. ”That’s not my reputation to look after.”

“Hey!” Asahina harrumphs, sticking out her tongue. “For your information, I’m _spotless_. I used to be in the varsity—can’t be a troublemaker if I’m in there, you know. It sticks.”

“There’s still time,” Kirigiri says blankly, but the corners of her mouth jerk a bit, and is she—teasing her? It’s hard to tell. “If I’ve learned anything…”

“Oh, come on,” Asahina says, picking up on the implication, ruffling a hand through her hair. “I’m not that bad. Am I?”

Kirigiri chuckles lightly, but drops it. “What brings you here?” She asks Hagakure. “You told me you had somewhere to go tonight.”

“It’s not much ‘til later,” he says, grinning. “Light pollution’s not going to be a stick up on the ass tonight, so Komaru-chi wanted to stargaze with me and I couldn’t say no.” He pauses. “The kid’s going to be the death of me. I swear.”

Kirigiri smiles in an amused sort of way. “Personally, I don’t think I would’ve been able to say ‘no’, either.”

They all laugh. Asahina waves a hand carelessly, “For real. Weaponized appeal, or something. ”

“You say that as if you’re not familiar with the concept,” Kirigiri drawls casually.

“What?” Asahina bats her eyelashes innocently. “Kyoko-chan, if I didn’t know any better that sounded like an accusation.”

He feels like he really should be anywhere but be alone with these two, but it’s not like it’s making him uncomfortable; if anything, Hagakure’s enjoying their practiced, affectionate banter. It’s nicer than being on the receiving end of Togami’s piercing stare, at least. “What are you two up to tonight?”

“Trying to decide where to get some grub for dinner,” Asahina answers pointedly, nudging Kirigiri with her elbow. Kirigiri ignores the jab, seemingly unbothered with her stoic expression, but shifts her weight between her feet until their shoulders are brushing.

She says, “Asahina-san, we just decided on ramen.”

“Oh yeah, we did.” Asahina says sheepishly, remembering. “My bad.” Kirigiri sighs, but he can tell she’s amused rather than annoyed.

“Cool,” Hagakure smiles. “Girls night, or something like that?”

“Something like that,” Asahina echoes, smiling coyly. It’s subtle, but it’s not enough for him to miss.

There’s no invitation extended, though, and he knows better than to intrude on a romantic date—if he can even call a ramen place a romantic getaway at all; he gives them a nod and says, “Good evening guys. Maybe on Monday night we can go all out on the same place?”

“Yeah, sounds like fun!” Asahina agrees jovially; Kirigiri looks like she agrees—but only because of the notion that it’s only her closest friends (and, Hagakure thinks amusedly, theoretical girlfriend) she’s being with and no one else.

“Monday night?” He looks back for confirmation before walking off.

Asahina nods fiercely. “Monday night!”

They resume fake-bickering behind him. She hears Asahina start, “Hey, I don’t think I’ve ever tried extra spicy stuff at all. Do you think I should—” and Kirigiri groans, for some reason; she says, “If you do, I won’t be able to ki...” but her voice grows quieter and Hagakure, who’s already turning toward the next corner, knows _exactly_ how that sentence was going to end.

* * *

So, Hagakure watches more carefully from a distance—not like, in an intruding sort of way. But out of curiosity. Nothing’s even changed that much—they were like a pair of best friends who decided that they should kiss sometimes. He’s not really sure what he’s even looking for, and he only ends up finding exactly what he’s already found: they’re clearly dating, and that’s about it.

He cycles through a mental list of people he could ask, but if it’s as big a secret as he convinced himself it was, he doesn’t want to spread the information to someone who doesn’t know. He even entertains the thought of asking the two of them directly, but it was easy to admit he was kind of too… scared to ask, so he scraps that idea quickly.

It’s always the same composition; Asahina and Kirigiri are standing together off to the side, and from what he can tell, Asahina’s applying some sort of lip gloss on the latter. “I just did this earlier,” Kirigiri seems to be joking with her lightly, “It doesn’t seem to hold well against you,” and, well, he’s sure he wasn’t supposed to hear about that part at all.

Asahina giggles. “Sorry, just missed you.”

“I was gone for only five hours.”

“You know I worry a lot when it comes to you,” Asahina interrupts, eyeing Kirigiri with a look that clearly says _you’ve got to be kidding me_ , _right?_

Kirigiri sighs with a resigned smile. “I understand.”

“Okay—I get it. I sound kind of clingy,” Asahina whines. “I was just young and reckless, but now—”

“—You’re still young and reckless,” Kirigiri finishes, but she’s smiling. Asahina holds a hand to her chest, gasping theatrically. “I’m pretty sure twenty three isn’t considered old, by anyone’s standards.”

“That’s so mean of you to say,” she says dramatically; something about her, about Kirigiri's expression in return, confirms so many for Hagakure about how Asahina spends a lot of time wearing smiles like it was her last. “I’ve totally grown a lot.”

He's also beginning to feel like the two of them have forgotten they’re technically in a public space; Fukawa and Naegi—well, the older one, who were talking to the two initially, have actually moved onto another conversation entirely, dragging Togami in, who only looked slightly interested. Clearly, they were used to being the background noise, if only just.

Kirigiri raises an eyebrow, “You think so?”

“Well, yeah,” Asahina says, lowering her arm; her lips tilt and shift, and her smile is suddenly more warm and sincere than the last. Crooked, piercing, and real. “That’s how much everyone means to me. Especially you.”

Kirigiri sighs, but there’s something shy about it, like she’s protecting her embarrassment; her cheeks flush slightly, and he thinks he catches her pushing a few strands of her hair behind her ear.

“You didn’t have to do much at all,” Kirigiri says back, softer, and the two of them smile dumbly at each other for a moment.

“What—you’re not going to say it?” Asahina says excitedly.

“We’ve all matured. You have too.” Kirigiri answers stoically. “But you’re not going to make me wear a onesie.”

“Damn it.”

Kirigiri glances over and catches Hagakure’s eye.

“Staring can be considered rude,” she says loftily, and Hagakure just blinks, confused beyond belief and having no idea what the _fuck_ just happened.


	24. tokomaru, syomaru - a thousand ghosts in the daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: tokomaru, syomaru + post-canon + a snapshot of catharsis, recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one prompt for today. this is actually part of a bigger fic that didn't make the cut for me, so here's a segment from it that seemed decent enough :]

Japan is recovering, and they're in the calm before the aftermath.

There is peace, but it is not quiet, because with peace comes grief and reformation.

And reformation itself comes with too much mind-numbing flair; in paperwork and politics and bureaucracy. There are cities to rebuild, lives to reconceive, rules and regulations to redefine into functionality. Entire populations of the surviving displaced still need to be resettled. Essential services from the ground up, formerly dirt cheap, are paid at diamonds (food, water, shelter, _guaranteed)_ ; an act of labor in exchange of solace and relief.

There is peace, and reconstruction, and in the clamor and noise and fanfare of it all, they do not rest.

Her brother, Makoto, sets off on his own, wordless and alone, guarded by faith and belief, his own competence, and a burning need to deal with the past years in silence. He hugs her close, tight, and tells everyone he loves them, promises to come back the next day, and sets off to nowhere with his chin held high, but the shadows of lives lost lurking under his green eyes.

Komaru watches him go and holds tight to Toko with one hand, willing herself not to cry. Only comforted with the fact that things will be okay—that she's safe and well; that everyone else, wartorn and whole-hearted, bright-eyed and battle-scarred, her family that she's found and built, is at arms’ reach.

The room she’s chosen to occupy smells stale when she gets back, the air kicking up flecks of dust when she dumps herself carelessly on the living room floor, back against the foot of the couch. Toko follows her inside more cautiously, peering around at the space they’ll be sharing with demure curiosity.

Komaru blinks, a thought occurring to her. “Wasn’t Kirigiri-san going to direct us to this room?”

Toko shuts the door behind her and then wrinkles her nose, because even if this was the best they could get in the midst of well, _everything_ , really, Komaru knows this room has a dry feel to it, like it’s been shut up for years, and feels relieved when Toko opens the door again, busying herself with opening the windows as well. 

“She… took Naegi’s workload again,” Toko says absently, flinching but relaxing immediately afterwards when Komaru stands up, walks over to her and props her chin on her shoulder. “You k-know how it is with her. Idiot d-doesn’t know when to stop.”

She’s met Kirigiri Kyoko, just like she met everyone else in Toko’s friend group throughout the years, and Komaru raises an eyebrow skeptically at that frankly unhealthy coping mechanism, hums quietly. There’s so much of her friends in Toko—bits and pieces bleeding into each other, warmth and patience, an unyielding need to protect and to care in her own way—but practically every ounce of pragmatism and the persecution complex in her is tied to the grey of her eyes. 

All of them are like bits and pieces to a puzzle; like clockwork, gears to fit together before they’re made whole. And maybe that’s the dangerous part— the way they’re just a tragedy, one that’s already set in place, trains long unhooked from the tracks.

Makoto is the blood and fire of the mountainside, in the same way Aoi is the roar of the storm. Komaru sees it in the way they speak, believing and unbound. Kyoko is a mortal seeking to be crucified, a lamb running towards the slaughter. She will give anything, her blood and bones and life, to save the ones she loved, the kind of person that always dies at the end of the day. Komaru had looked at her once, suggested to her to slow down. To breathe. Focus on what’s important and on the people that loved her. Kyoko only shook her head and laughed.

Byakuya is proud. Back straighter, stranger and infuriating than anyone Komaru has ever known. His chin and eyes sharp to the point of danger. One that reads: step too far in this direction and you will die. Of course, rather, those are the icy outsides of him, the dust coated shell he’s hardened and formed and practiced over the years of living by the whims of a last name. Behind those walls, he holds his shoulders like how anyone would cradle an injury. Like anyone else, like Yasuhiro, it’s fear. Fear for the world, of what it has to offer and not being enough for it.

Their hearts beat like a wilted flower, one that’s been drowned to death and before but is somehow, someway, still trying to grow. (Somewhere, Komaru wonders if she is the same with them too, after all.)

Toko and Syo, however _. God._ She doesn’t just _know_ them. She feels them. Syo is an omnipresent force, wild and strong and unstoppable, ineffable and unshakeable. From the sloping curves of her jaw to the callous scratches in her hands, the lines in her palms, Syo knows. Komaru likes to watch her from afar, tracks the movement of her steps, how she sways to one side, always closer to her, ready to jump in front and protect. Ready to defend. Ready to lay her life down. Komaru knows she’s like Toko in that way, like everyone else that way—not bathing in her laurels, but always with the taste of death in her mouth.

Toko once said Syo wants to follow wherever the adventure will take her. She was corrected that time—Komaru couldn’t remember who, but what she means she’ll follow Komaru wherever she goes. It’s not just her alone. They’ve done everything and beyond for her, mold into a shield rather than a blade, large and unopposed.

(And Komaru knows that someday, soon, she’s going to have to do something for that last one.)

“I think I’m going to shower,” Komaru announces, because she needs something to do, because both of them need something to do, because they’ve been living in a historical tragedy since they were six to seventeen and now that it’s truly over there is no mission, no battle, no crisis, and they’re standing in the middle of a living room practically fraying at the ends and falling apart with the still-packed weight of the years at their feet, and if the only mission she can actually come up with is to scrub the feeling of travel and exhaustion off her skin then, well, a start is a start. “I’ll see you later?”

“…yeah, o-okay.” Toko says quietly, sliding around until they’re facing each other and can wrinkle her nose at her. “You s-smell like smoke.” It works to shake Komaru out of her reverie from where she’s staring at the patterns on the walls, and she laughs, quieter than usual, when Toko grumbles.

Komaru cranes her head around and tiptoes to press a quick kiss on her temple. “I’ll see you later!”

“You just said t-that,” Toko says drolly, even though the glint in her eyes, says otherwise, and Komaru keeps her stare focused on her until she’s opening the door to her bedroom. Her chest aches to go back, but her shoes stay rooted to the floor, because the fighting is over and they came out of it alive and they have a whole lifetime in front of them to live together, and she should be ecstatic and cuddling with her girlfriend without giving a damn about hygiene, but instead she’s worrying about the stench of war staying stuck to her skin.

She closes the door and leans back into it, dragging her hands through her hair, exhausted, muscles aching with the phantom pains of too many battles, too much sorrow, too much loss. It’s been days, almost weeks since the last time she had to process grief after grief until she had enough of it to be blasted through the atmosphere, and her body’s healed, healthy, but the weeks and months and years of stress and fatigue and constant, unending mourning have left a soreness lingering deep in her muscles, in her bones, that no amount of time and rest can ever seem to unwind. 

Dust drifts slowly in the sunlight, the room bright from all the windows Toko had delicately levered open. The last time Komaru had been alone with only the company of her mind, she was in her old apartment, and the tally of her days etched into the walls had reached around three hundred and sixty uneven lines; she’d still felt incomplete, unbalanced, untethered in a way that hadn’t started to right itself until Syo found her in the middle of the chaos in Towa, until Toko found her in Towa, and until she found herself again in it, too. 

Komaru breathes in deep, dragging the humid air deep into her lungs and holding it there, and lets it out slowly. She strips out of her jacket, the protective fabric too thick for the incoming summer, leaves it on the doorknob, and discards her boots and socks as well, lays flat on the bed and faces the ceiling. Maybe she could change properly after the shower—a new shipment of comfortable clothing recently arrived last week; an unending supply of cheap but decent flip flops, plenty of proper summer clothes for the sweltering summer heat—but the thought takes more effort than she’s willing to put into it and instead she bounds forward, towel in hand, and sets off to the bathroom barefoot.


	25. celesgiri - claws in your back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: celesgiri + canon-compliant + when smart people do the tango

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no post! one prompt today. celestia is a callous bitch, but she's *my* callous bitch.
> 
> i would be blissfully and shamelessly remiss if it weren't for the fact that i missed the date of my discord group's 3 year anniv two days ago. this clsgr prompt if for you guys, sorry if i'm late haha

_i._

It goes like this:

It’s Kirigiri, again, always, who figures anything out. Just like it was Kirigiri, then, first, who found her toiling away in the library with overfunded and unwieldy school-issued startups, working her way through dust-piled theses one after another while she waited for their hours to be swallowed whole by Monokuma’s behemoth, trying to find the time to polish unused board games buried between the shelves and observe their environment between sixteen hours a day and analysing said observations the other eight. Kirigiri, who pulled her over into a stalemate in chess a day later, who blasts them through trials so viciously akin to companies making reimbursement policies. And Kirigiri, who only has a few tens of words to her name.

Kirigiri, who’s standing there in the hallway when Celeste comes back to herself, who puts the pieces together, who’s possibly the only person in this situation to utterly fascinate her.

Celes knows, now, what it is; people had masks, much like herself. Kirigiri Kyoko, too, has her own. It is its own language, and she was fluent in it. The question that relays to this notion, however, lies in whether or not it is breakable, or if the breaking point is fathomable in the first place. A very loose shackle to digress from though, and it’s quite a shame; bonds formed in a gambit that preyed on instinct instead of intellect do not hold up against reality. It’s not a time to be forming attachments, it’s a time for survival. And she will do the latter just so.

In here she has one ally and one competitor. Everyone else is the competitor; like Hagakure, incompetent and blazed on fear who can barely pronounce words consistently when met with the crucible of murder. Like Oogami, with the broad shoulders and thick forearms of experienced fighters who shoved huge sawblades through huger tree trunks.

She’ll never overpower her. Or anyone, if she didn’t do anything. A lot of them were strong and vicious in their own way, much like how the rest were wiry and determined. Until then, everything pales in stark contrast when met with Kirigiri Kyoko’s hypothetical capability; thus, most are written off before her plans even begin.

If anyone from this class is going to make it out, she sure as hell won’t let it be anyone else. Not even her.

For now, however, Celes is content to watch.

* * *

_ii._

It goes like this:

_Celestia Ludenberg_ , fights her way past _Celes_ and snaps into the present, in a different thought with less space and more light, morbid and heavy and propelling her forward. Her legs buckle and the porcelain clinks under her kneecaps when she falls. Her fingers dig into the floor, already bruised and bloody, and fresh scrapes split open her skin—her skin—and drip onto the floor.

She looks up, slow, to see posters of the _outside world,_ as Monokuma affectionately put, inches away and so far out of reach. It’s all she can manage to infer, shoulders shaking and head aching under the effort of splitting herself between speaking and keeping the growl in her throat back.

There’s no pressure in her head when it’s made a sound decision, no frayed edges of her consciousness losing ground against the idea of murder. Whether made by her own hands or through getting away with it, is a thought that will only weigh her should she choose it to.

If anyone from this class is going to make it out, it was her.

* * *

_iii._

It goes like this:

Yamada Hifumi will kill Ishimaru Kiyotaka, and she will kill Yamada Hifumi afterwards. It is sound. It is solid. It _will_ work.

Days and hours pass, and Celeste has played other games with Kirigiri every other day. Three hours in, and the very miniscule crinkles in Kirigiri’s eyebrows fade with the sun lamps Asahina shows off, theatrically brought out from the storage room and before Oogami can usher her back in. Five, and Kirigiri stares back at her over a game of shogi they dug up from the library, expression neutral as always.

“Celes-san,” she says as an icebreaker, stoic. “You seem to be very deep in thought.”

Celeste giggles at the crude observation, idly tracing the wood of the shogi board. “There is a lot to think about in this context, don’t you think?”

“Mhm,” Kirigiri looks thoughtful (which seems to be her default expression) for a moment, eyelashes fluttering. Celeste tries not to gawk at the motion as it happens, instead looking down on the board and memorizing the pieces. “…that is correct.”

“But to elaborate, I was just thinking about how these are the same moves you made last game, and you know full well you lost that one.” Celes' lips twitch into an upward, cordial slant. She would say this was a usual response, but this one comes to her more naturally than it should. “Perhaps there’s something you’d like to share instead?”

Kirigiri’s smile is dry and amused, at first, before she seems to recognize the emotion and her face reverts back into steel. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“It’s insulting to think that you thought this would get past me.”

“More of a fulfilment of an expectation than an insult if anything, Celes-san,” she says, moving a white piece to a somewhat perilous position, signifying a kind of surrender. “It simply means you’re as sharp as your talent boasts to be.”

“You flatter me,” Celes sniffs, not certain if she’s accepting the compliment out of courtesy or if she just liked hearing it coming from Kirigiri herself. “It’s as much as yourself, Kirigiri-san. Though I’m convinced you really are just hiding your talent, even if the evidence you present that pertain to otherwise seem too convincing.”

Kirigiri actually laughs, for once, standing up from the library desk and catching Celes slightly off-guard. The sound stirs something within her stomach, and it’s a more welcoming sensation compared to one enkindled by bloodshed and death.

“Well,” Kirigiri begins wryly, offering a hand to lift Celes from her seat. She accepts it, heels clacking against the floor. Game set, game end. “I think that this is for you to figure out then. Don’t you think, Celes-san?”

“How enthralling,” she rolls her eyes as she stands, dusting herself off. She’s also rather thankful that the foundation she’s applied religiously every morning will most likely cover the warmth pooling in her cheeks; _that_ was not a vulnerability she’d have displayed anywhere—thank you very much.

“I’m glad you’re engaged in some way,” Kirigiri says with a not-so-modest glance—perhaps entertained at the way Celes seemed to be irritated by her. “I would like to play one last round, but I still have many things that require my attention. Good day and good game, Celes-san.”

“I see,” Celeste says with a hum. She clears her throat, carefully, falsely, and the mild arc of Kirigiri’s eyebrows crawl even higher. She catches the silver-haired woman’s eye and holds it for a few beats longer than is necessary, long enough for Kirigiri herself to clear her throat and stare at her in that way that she does when she’s just overheard a proposition she did not need to hear. “I’ll see you around, Kirigiri-san.”

Kirigiri leaves the library with a smile and a nod, and Celeste stays.

(As gratifying as this sensation is, that still won’t stop her from going through with her plans. Guilt is a thought that will only weigh on her should she choose it to.

And in this case, she chooses not to.)


End file.
